An ODE.

An ODE.

I.

While from our Looks, fair Nymph, You guess The secret Passions of our Mind; My heavy Eyes, You say, confess A Heart to Love and Grief inclin'd.

II.

There needs, alas! but little Art, To have this fatal Secret found: With the same Ease You threw the Dart, 'Tis certain, You may show the Wound.

III.

How can I see You, and not love; While You as op'ning East are fair? While cold as Northern Blasts You prove; How can I love, and not despair?

IV.

The Wretch in double Fetters bound Your Potent Mercy may release: Soon, if my Love but once were crown'd, Fair Prophetess, my Grief would cease.