Poet - 'Ephelia'

Farewell my dearest half, joy of my heart,
Heaven only knows how loth I am to part:
Whole Months but hours seem, when you are here,
When absent, every Minute is a Year:
Might I but always see thy charming Face,
I'de live on Racks, and wish no easier place.
But we must part, your Interests says we must;
Fate, me no longer with such Treasyre trust.
I wou'd not tax you with Inconstancy,
Yet Strephon, you are not as kind as I:
No Interest, nor no Fate it self has pow'r
To tempt me frin the Idol I adore:
But since you needs will go, may Africk be
Kinder to you, than Europe is to me:
May all you meet and every thing you view
Give you such Transport as I met in you.
May no sad thoughts disturb your quiet mind,
Except you'l think of her you left behind.

To J.G. On The News Of His Marriage

My Love? alas! I must not call you Mine,
But to your envy'd Bride that Name resign:
I must forget your lovely melting Charms,
And be fore ever Banisht from your Arms:
For ever? oh! the Horrow of that Sound!
It gives my bleeding Heart a deadly wound:
While I might hope, although my Hope was vain,
It gave some Ease to my unpitty' Pain,
But now your Hymen doth all Hope exclude,
And but to think is Sin; yet you intrude
On every Thought; if I but close my Eyes,
Methinks your pleasing Form besides me lies;
With every Sigh I gently breath your Name,
Yet no ill Thoughts pollute my hallow'd Flame;
'Tis pure and harmless, as a Lambent Fire,
And ever mingled with a warm Desire:
All I have now to ask Bounteous Heaven,
Is, that your Perjuries may be forgiven:
That she who you have with your Nuptials blest,
As She's the Happiest Wife, may prove the Best:
That all our Joys may light on you alone,
Then I can be contented to have none:
And never wish that you shou'd kinder be,
Than now and then, to cast a Thought on Me:
And, Madam, though the Conquest you have won,
Over my Strephon, has my hopes undone;
I'le daily beg of Heaven, he may be
Kinder to You, than he has been to Me.

To My Rival

Since you dare Brave me, with a Rivals Name,
You shall previal, and I will quit my Claime:
For know, proud Maid, I Scorn to call him mine,
Whom thou durst ever hope to have made thine:
Yet I confess, I lov'd him once so well,
His presence was my Heav'n, his absence Hell:
With gen'rous excellence I fill'd his Brest,
And in sweet Beauteous Forms his Person drest;
For him I did Heaven, and it's Power despise,
And onely lived by th'Infuence of his Eyes:
I fear'd not for Rivals, for I thought that he
That possess'd of such a Prize as me,
All meaner Objects wou'd Contemn, and Slight,
Nor let an abject thing Usurpe my Right:
But when I heard he was so wretched Base
To pay devotion to thy wrinkled Face
I Banish't him my sight, and told the Slave,
He had not Worth, but what my Fancy gave:
'Twas I that rais'd him to this Glorious State,
And can as easily Annihilate:
But let him live, Branded with Guilt and Shame,
And Shrink into the Shade from whence he came;
His Punishment shall be, the Loss of Me,
And be Augmented, by his gaining Thee.

To One That Asked Me Why I Lov'd J.G.

Why do I love? Go, ask the Glorious Sun
Why every day it round the world doth run;
Ask Thames and Tiber, why they Ebb and Flow:
Ask Damask Roses why in June they blow:
Ask Ice and Hail, the reason, why they're Cold:
Decaying Beauties, why they will grow Old
They'll tell thee, Fate, that every thing doth move,
Inforces them to this, and me to Love.
There is no Reason for our Love or Hate;
'Tis irresistable, as Death or Fate;
'Tis not his face; I've sence enough to see,
That is not good, though doated on by me;
Not is't his Tongue, that has this Conquest won;
For that at least is equall'd by my own:
His Carriagecan to non obliging be,
'Tis Rude, Affected, full of Vanity:
Strangely Ill-natur'd, Peevish and Unkind,
Unconstant, False, to Jealousie inclin'd,
His Temper cou'd not have so great a Pow'r,
'Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous Years that Women so Adore,
Are past in him: he's twice my Age, and more;
And yet I love this false; this worthless Man
With all the Passion that a Woman can;
Doat on his Imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to Love; I Love, and know not why.
Since 'tis Decreed in the dark Book of Fate
That I shou'd Love, and he shou'd be ingrate.

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