To the Sighing Strephon

Your pardon, my friend,

If my rhymes did offend,

Your pardon, a thousand times o'er;

From friendship I strove,

Your pangs to remove,

But, I swear, I will do so no more.

Since your _beautiful_ maid,

Your flame has repaid,

No more I your folly regret;

She's now most divine,

And I bow at the shrine,

Of this quickly reformèd coquette.

Yet still, I must own,

I should never have known,

From _your verses_, what else she deserv'd;

Your pain seem'd so great,

I pitied your fate,

As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd.

Since the balm-breathing kiss

Of this magical Miss,

Can such wonderful transports produce;

Since the _"world you forget,

When your lips once have met,"_

My counsel will get but abuse.

You say, "When I rove,"

"I know nothing of love;"

Tis true, I am given to range;

If I rightly remember,

_I've lov'd_ a good number;

Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.

I will not advance,

By the rules of romance,

To humour a whimsical fair;

Though a smile may delight,

Yet a _frown_ will _affright,_

Or drive me to dreadful despair.

While my blood is thus warm,

I ne'er shall reform,

To mix in the Platonists' school;

Of this I am sure,

Was my Passion so pure,

Thy _Mistress_ would think me a fool.

And if I should shun,

Every _woman_ for _one,_

Whose _image_ must fill my whole breast;

Whom I must _prefer,_

And _sigh_ but for _her,_

What an _insult_ 'twould be to the _rest!_

Now Strephon, good-bye;

I cannot deny,

Your _passion_ appears most _absurd;_

Such _love_ as you plead,

Is _pure_ love, indeed,

For it _only_ consists in the _word_.