TO fix her, -- 'twere a task as vain To count the April drops of rain, To sow in Afric's barren soil, -- Or tempests hold within a toil. I know it, friend, she's light as air, False as the fowler's artful snare, Inconstant as the passing wind, As winter's dreary frost unkind. She's such a miser too, in love, Its joys she'll neither share nor prove; Though hundreds of gallants await From her victorious eyes their fate. Blushing at such inglorious reign, I sometimes strive to break her chain; My reason summon to my aid, Resolved no more to be betray'd. Ah, friend! 'tis but a short-lived trance, Dispell'd by one enchanting glance; She need but look, and I confess Those looks completely curse, or bless. So soft, so elegant, so fair, Sure, something more than human's there; I must submit, for strife is vain, 'Twas destiny that forged the chain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JUST & UNJUST by CHARLES SYNGE CHRISTOPHER BOWEN COLUMBUS by EDWARD EVERETT HALE OUR COUNTRY by JULIA WARD HOWE WILL (1) by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX MOST ANY BIT OF LANDSCAPE by JEAN CAMERON AGNEW ICED BRANCHES by KENNETH SLADE ALLING EXTEMPORE ON BEING SHOWN SHOE BUCKLES WORN BY DAVID GARRICK by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |