A Song.

A SONG.

I.

DAMON in vain you strive to move; 'Tis true my Heart was form'd for Love, And own its native Flame. But such a Flame, so pure a Fire, Philander only can inspire, And all its Softness claim.

II.

No more of cruel Scorn complain, Too late, alas! you own'd your Pain, Too late to find a Cure. If Friendship to your Views be due, Taste all the Ease that can bestow, But Damon ask no more.