html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Thanks, Fair Urania, to your scorn,
I now am free as I was born;
Of all the Pain that I endur'd,
By your late Coldness, I am Cur'd.
In losing me, proud Nymph, you lose
The Humblest Slave your Beauty knows;
In losing you, I but throw down
A Cruel Tyrant from her Throne.
I must confess, I ne'er could find
Your equal, or in Shape, or Mind.
Y'ave Beauty, Wit, and all things know,
But where you shou'd your Love bestow.
I unawares, my Freedom gave,
And to those Tyrants grew a Slave;
But would y'ave kept what you have won,
You should have more Compassion shewn.
Love is a burthen, which two Hearts,
When equally they bear their parts;
With pleasure carry, but no one,
Alas, can bear it long alone.
I'm not of those, who Court their Pain,
And make an Idol of Disdain;
My hope in Love, does ne'er expire,
But I lose also the Desire.
Nor yet of those, who ill receiv'd,
Would gladly have strange things believ'd,
And if your Heart you do defend,
Their Force against your Honour bend.
Whoe'er does make his Victor less,
His own low weakness does confess;
And whiles her pow'r he does defame,
He poorly doubles his own shame.
Even that Malice does betray,
And speak concern another way:
And all such scorn in Men is but
The Smoak of Fires ill put out.
He's still in Torment, whom the Rage
To Detraction does engage;
In Love, Indifference is sure
The only sign of perfect Cure.
Yet, Cruel Fair, if thou canst prove
As happy in some other Love,
As I could once have done in thine,
The Sun on Happier does not shine.