Where wert thou, oh, malicious spright, When shining Honour did invite? When interest call’d, then thou wert shy, Nor to my aid one kind propension brought, Nor wou’d’.t inspire one tender thought, When Princes, at my feet did lye. When thou cou’d’.t mix ambition with thy joy, Then peevish _Phantôm_ thou wer’t nice and coy, Not Beauty cou’d invite thee then Nor all the Arts of lavish Men; Not all the powerful Rhetorick of the Tongue Not sacred Wit you’d charm thee on; Not the soft play that lovers make, Nor sigh cou’d fan thee to a fire, Not pleading tears, nor vows cou’d thee awake, Or warm the unform’d somthing--to desire. Oft I’ve conjur’d thee to appear By youth, by love, by all their powrs, Have searcht and sought thee every where, In silent Groves, in lonely bowrs: On Flowry beds where lovers wishing lye, In sheltering woods where sighing maids To their assigning Shepherds hye, And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades: Yet there, even there, thô youth assail’d, Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune woo’d, My heart insensible to neither bow’d, The lucky aid was wanting to prevail. In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphear But thou in crowds wer’t stifl’d there, Int’rest did all the loving business do, Invites the youths and wins the Virgins too. Or if by chance some heart thy empire own (Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone. Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate Thy mighty force thrô every part, What God, or Human power did thee create In my, till now, unfacil heart? Art thou some welcome plague sent from above In this dear form, this kind disguise? Or the false offspring of mistaken love, Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove, With the bright peircing Beautys of _Lysanders_ Eyes? Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now; And found to whom thou dost thy being owe, ‘Tis thou the blushes dost impart, For thee this languishment I wear, ‘Tis thou that tremblest in my heart When the dear Shepherd do’s appear, I faint, I dye with pleasing pain, My words intruding sighing break When e’re I touch the charming swain When e’re I gaze, when e’re I speak. Thy conscious fire is mingl’d with my love, As in the sanctifi’d abodes Misguided worshippers approve The mixing Idol with their Gods. In vain, alas! in vain I strive With errors, which my soul do please and vex, For superstition will survive, Purer Religion to perplex.