Chapter I: Smile at Love

I smile at Love, and all its arts,
The charming Cynthia cried:
Take heed, for Love has piercing darts,
A wounded swain replied.
Once free and blest as you are now,
I trifled with his charms,
I pointed at his little bow,
And sported with his arms,
Till urged too far, Revenge! he cries,
A fatal shaft he drew,
It took its passage through your eyes,
And to my heart it flew.

To tear it thence I tried in vain;
To strive, I quickly found
Was only to increase the pain,
And to enlarge the wound.
Ah! much too well, I fear, you know
What pain I'm to endure,
Since what your eyes alone can do
Your heart alone can cure.
And that (grant Heaven, I may mistake!)
I doubt is doom'd to bear
A burden for another's sake,
Who ill rewards its care.

Sir John Vanbrugh.

ADIEU L'AMOUR.

Here end my chains, and thraldom cease,
If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace;
Since for the pleasures of an hour,
We must endure an age of pain;
I'll be this abject thing no more,
Love, give me back my heart again.

Despair tormented first my breast,
Now falsehood, a more cruel guest;
O! for the peace of human kind,
Make women longer true, or sooner kind:
With justice, or with mercy reign,
O Love! or give me back my heart again.

George Granville.

SABINA WAKES.

See, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes!
And now the sun begins to rise;
Less glorious is the morn that breaks
From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.

With light united, day they give,
But different fates ere night fulfil;
How many by his warmth will live!
How many will her coldness kill!

William Congreve.

FALSE! OR INCONSTANCY.

False though she be to me and love,
I'll ne'er pursue revenge;
For still the charmer I approve,
Though I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met,
They could not always last;
And though the present I regret,
I'm grateful for the past.

William Congreve.

LOVE AND HATE.

Why we love, and why we hate,
Is not granted us to know:
Random chance, or wilful fate,
Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.

If on me Zelinda frown,
Madness 'tis in me to grieve:
Since her will is not her own,
Why should I uneasy live?

If I for Zelinda die,
Deaf to poor Mizella's cries,
Ask not me the reason why:
Seek the riddle in the skies.

Ambrose Philips.