No Swain was by, no flattering Nymph was neer, Soft tales of Love to whisper in my Ear. In sleep, no Dream my fancy fir’d With Images, my waking wish desir’d. No fond Idea fill’d my mind; Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclin’d; I sigh’d for no deceiving youth, Who forfeited his vows and truth; I waited no Assigning Swain Whose disappointment gave me pain. My fancy did no prospect take Of Conquest’s I design’d to make. No snares for Lovers I had laid, Nor was of any snare afraid. But calm and innocent I sate, } Content with my indifferent fate. } (A Medium, I confess, I hate.) } For when the mind so cool is grown } As neither Love nor Hate to own, } The Life but dully lingers on. } Thus in the mid’st of careless thought, A paper to my hand was brought. What hidden charms were lodg’d within, To my unwary Eyes unseen, Alas! no Human thought can guess; But ho! it robb’d me of my peace. A Philter ‘twas, that darted pain Thrô every pleas’d and trembling vein. A stratagem, to send a Dart By a new way into the heart, Th’ Ignoble Policie of Love By a clandestin means to move. Which possibly the Instrument } Did ne’re design to that intent, } But only form, and complement. } While Love did the occasion take And hid beneath his flowres a snake, O’re every line did Poyson fling, In every word he lurk’t a sting. So Matrons are, by _Demons_ charms, Thô harmless, capable of harms. The verse was smooth, the thought was fine, The fancy new, the wit divine. But fill’d with praises of my face and Eyes, My verse, and all those usual flatteries To me as common as the Air; Nor cou’d my vanity procure my care. All which as things of course are writ And less to shew esteem than wit. But here was some strange somthing more Than ever flatter’d me before; My heart was by my Eyes misled: I blusht and trembl’d as I read. And every guilty look confest I was with new surprise opprest. From every view I felt a pain And by the Soul, I drew the Swain. Charming as fancy cou’d create Fine as his Poem, and as soft as that. I drew him all the heart cou’d move, I drew him all that women Love. And such a dear Idea made As has my whole repose betray’d. _Pigmalion_ thus his Image form’d, And for the charms he made, he sigh’d and burn’d.