I.
'Tis not that I am weary grown
Of being yours, and yours alone:
But with what Face can I incline,
To damn you to be only mine?
You, whom some kinder Pow'r did fashion, }
By Merit, and by Inclination, }
The Joy at least of a whole Nation. }
II.
Let meaner Spirits of your Sex,
With humble Aims their Thoughts perplex:
And boast, if, by their Arts they can
Contrive to make one happy Man.
While, mov'd by an impartial Sense, }
Favours, like Nature you dispense, }
With universal Influence. }
III.
See the kind Seed-receiving Earth,
To ev'ry Grain affords a Birth:
On her no Show'rs unwelcom fall,
Her willing Womb retains 'em all.
And shall my Cælia be confin'd? }
No, live up to thy mighty Mind; }
And be the Mistress of Mankind. }