html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Fair Octavia, you are much to blame,
To blow the fire, and wonder at the flame.
I did converse, 'tis true, so far was mine;
But that I Lov'd, and hop'd, was wholly thine;
Not hop'd, as others do, for a return,
But that I might without offending burn.
I thought those Eyes which every hour enslave,
Could not remember all the Wounds they gave:
Forgotten in the Crowd, I wisht to lie,
And of your Coldness, not your Anger, die;
Yet since you know I Love, 'tis now no time
Longer to hide, let me excuse the Crime;
Seeing what Laws I to my Passion give,
Perhaps you may consent that it should live:
First, It never shall a hope advance
Of waiting on you, but by seeming chance,
I at a distance will Adore your Eyes,
As awful Persians do the Eastern Skies:
I never will presume to think of Sex,
Nor with gross Thoughts my Deathless Love perplex:
I tread a pleasant path without design;
And to thy care my Happiness resign,
From Heaven it self thy Beauty cannot be
A freer Gift than is my Love to Thee.