'Tis not that I am weary grown Of being yours, and yours alone; But with what face can I incline To damn you to be only mine? You, whom some kinder power did fashion, By merit and by inclination, The joy at least of one whole nation. Let meaner spirits of your sex With humbler aims their thoughts perplex, And boast if by their arts they can Contrive to make one happy man; Whilst, moved by an impartial sense, Favors like nature you dispense With universal influence. See, the kind seed-receiving earth To every grain affords a birth. On her no showers unwelcome fall; Her willing womb retains 'em all. And shall my Celia be confined? No! Live up to thy mighty mind, And be the mistress of mankind. |