A thousand times my hand with Kisses prest, And look’d such Darts, as none cou’d e’er resist. Silent we gaz’d, and as my Eyes met thine, New Joy fill’d theirs, new Love and shame fill’d mine! You saw the Fears my kind disorder show’d And breaking Silence Faith anew you vow’d! Heavens, how you swore by every Pow’r Divine You wou’d be ever true! be ever mine! Each God, a sacred witness you invoke, And wish’d their Curse when e’er these Vows you broke. Quick to my Heart each perjur’d Accent ran, Which I took in, believ’d, and was undone. “Vows are Love’s poyson’d Arrows, and the heart So wounded, rarely finds a Cure from Art.” At least this heart which Fate has destin’d yours, } This heart unpractis’d in Love’s mystick pow’rs, } For I am soft and young as _April_ Flowers. } Now uncontroll’d we meet, uncheck’d improve Each happier Minute in new Joys of Love! Soft were our hours! and lavishly the Day We gave intirely up to Love, and Play. Oft to the cooling Groves our Flocks we led, } And seated on some shaded, flowery Bed, } Watch’d the united Wantons as they fed. } And all the Day my list’ning Soul I hung } Upon the charming Musick of thy Tongue, } And never thought the blessed hours too long. } No Swain, no God like thee cou’d ever move, } Or had so soft an Art in whisp’ring Love. } No wonder for thou art Ally’d to _Jove_! } And when you pip’d, or sung, or danc’d, or spoke, The God appear’d in every Grace, and Look. Pride of the Swains, and Glory of the Shades, The Grief, and Joy of all the Love-sick Maids. Thus whilst all hearts you rul’d without Controul, I reign’d the absolute Monarch of your Soul. Each Beach my Name yet bears, carv’d out by thee, _Paris_, and his _OEnone_ fill each Tree; And as they grow, the Letters larger spread, Grow still a witness of my Wrongs when dead! Close by a silent silver Brook there grows } A Poplar, under whose dear gloomy Boughs } A thousand times we have exchang’d our Vows! } Oh may’st thou grow! t’ an endless date of Years! Who on thy Bark this fatal Record bears; _When_ Paris _to_ OEnone _proves untrue,_ _Back_ Xanthus _Streams shall to their Fountains flow._ Turn! turn your Tides! back to your Fountains run! The perjur’d Swain from all his Faith is gone! Curst be that day, may Fate appoint the hour, As Ominous in his black Kalendar; When _Venus_, _Pallas_, and the Wife of _Jove_ Descended to thee in the Mirtle Grove,