Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
Stay, stranger, stay, and drop one tear.
She always weeps, who laid him here;
And will do till her race is run;
Air Iris I love, and hourly I die,
But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye:
She's fickle and false, and there we agree,
For I am as false and as fickle as she.
You charm'd me not with that fair face
Though it was all divine:
To be another's is the grace,
That makes me wish you mine.
Men are but children of a larger growth;
Our appetites are apt to change as theirs,
And full as craving too, and full as vain;
Fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend, in one;
Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost,
Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief!
In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;
Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,
New ministers, when first they get in place,
Must have a care to please; and that's our case:
Some laws for public welfare we design,
Can life be a blessing,
Or worth the possessing,
Can life be a blessing if love were away?
Ah no! though our love all night keep us waking,