120
SONGS.
Del. On Fate alone depends ſucceſs,
And fancy reaſon over-rules,20
Or why ſhould virtue ever miſs
Reward, ſo often giv’n to fools?
’T is not the valiant nor the witty,
But who alone is born to pleaſe:
Love does predeſtinate our pity;
We chuſe but whom he firſt decrees.26
SONG.
I ’ll tell her the next time, ſaid I:
In vain! in vain! for when I try,
Upon my tim’rous tongue the trembling accents die.3
Alas! a thouſand thouſand fears
Still overawe when ſhe appears;
My breath is ſpent in ſighs, my eyes are drown’d in tears.6
SONG. TO MIRA.
“Fooliſh Love! begone,” ſaid I,
“Vain are thy attempts on me;
Thy ſoft allurements I defy:
Women, thoſe fair diſſemblers, fly;
My heart was never made for thee.”5
