POEMS.
49
But did not Pride inspire the lay,
Which courts me to that cell away?
Lurks in his lines no selfish envious thought?
And would his faith unchanged remain,
"To her whom thousands seek in vain,"
If she by thousands should no more be sought?
Which courts me to that cell away?
Lurks in his lines no selfish envious thought?
And would his faith unchanged remain,
"To her whom thousands seek in vain,"
If she by thousands should no more be sought?
Does not his conscious heart feel proud,
When turning from the adoring croud,
My eyes are only anxious his to meet?
Joys He not, when by every tongue
He hears his Delia's praises rung,
And finds that praise from his alone is sweet?
When turning from the adoring croud,
My eyes are only anxious his to meet?
Joys He not, when by every tongue
He hears his Delia's praises rung,
And finds that praise from his alone is sweet?
He does! And now his power to try,
From all but him he bids me fly,
And shew the world, how wildly I adore!
Dear Youth, the ungenerous wish repress:
It has not made me love thee less. . . . . .
But has not, Edmund, made me love thee more.
From all but him he bids me fly,
And shew the world, how wildly I adore!
Dear Youth, the ungenerous wish repress:
It has not made me love thee less. . . . . .
But has not, Edmund, made me love thee more.
