To thee, Indifference! many a strain
Hath many a Nymph addressed in vain;—
Cowley, Munro, and Greville:
These songsters praise thy latent charms,
Affect to lure thee to their arms,
Yet wish thee at the devil!
Ladies will scribble and invoke,
But not to thee their altars smoke,
Where doves are ever cooing;
How can they court thy placid form,
Who to a calm prefer a storm,
Especially of wooing.
The chilling tenor of thy life
Suits not with widow, maid, or wife,
If I have skill in woman;
And sure I am, thou callous elf!
To judge of others by myself,
Thou art beloved of no man.
Cold, comfortless, and hardened creature,
Inanimate of mind and feature,
To Hope an utter stranger;
Pity ne'er glistened in thine eye,
And Mercy never beamed from high,
Thy quiet to endanger.
The songs of mirth, the strains of joy,
The zest of wit, and humours toy,
All petrify before thee;
Thy visage withers Friendship's power,
And deals dismay in Venus' bower,—
Indifference, I abhor thee!