'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die,
I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacy
To after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me,
Those sickly flames which now benighted be,
Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and prove
In them the metempsychosis of love.
'Twas I—when others scorn'd—vow'd you were fair,
And sware that breath enrich'd the coarser air,
Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring
Her nymphs with all the glories of the spring
To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart
A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart,
To arm those eyes against myself; to me
Thou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony.
I courted angels from those upper joys,
And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice.
I made the Indian curse the hours he spent
To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent
His former folly, and confess a sin,
Charm'd by the brighter lustre of thy skin.
I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wing
Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring;
And made—to air those cheeks with fresher grace—
The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face.
Oh! jam satis ...