Does ev'ry glance, like Jove's vindictive flame,
Shoot thro' thy veins, and kindle all thy frame ?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For he who wants these symptoms does not love.
Is to one woman all your heart inclin'd?
And can fhe only charm your conftant, mind?
For her do all your morning wishes rife ?
Does the at night of flumber rob your eyes?
Mufing on her, does fhe alone excite
Your thoughts by day, and all your dreams by night?
Or does your heart, for every nymph you meet,
Own a new paffion, and as ftrongly beat?
Do in your eyes all women feem the fame;
And each new face expel the former flame?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
If you love more than one, you do not love.
Does Love, and only Love, invade your heart?
Or is it ftricken with a golden dart?
Does the keen arrow from her beauty fly,
Or does her fortune glitter in your eye?
For, in this age, how feldom is it found
That Love alone inflicts the fecret wound?
Silver and gold are Cupid's fureft arms,
One thousand pounds out-weighs ten thousand charms,
But art thou fure that, in thy tender heart,
These wordly baubles bear no fordid part?
And can't thou fay, fincerely can't thou fay,
Should adverfe fortune on thy charmer prey,
That still unchang'd thy paffion would remain ?
That ftill thou would't abide a faithful fwain ?
If, in the curs'd South-Sea, her all were loft,
Still would her eyes their former conquests boast?
And would fhe, doft thou think, in ev'ry state,
The fame emotions in thy foul create ?
E 2
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For if you figh for wealth, you do not love.
Again, my friend, incline thy patient ear,
(For thou haft many questions ftill to hear)
This chofen damfel, this triumphant she,"
Canft thou no blemish in her person fee?
Her temper, shape, her features, and her air,
(Tho' never yet was born a faultless fair)
Do they all please? In body or in mind,
Canst thou no blot nor imperfection find?
Does o'er her skin no mole nor pimple rife?
Or do e'en these seem beauties in thy eyes?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For if you spy one fault, you do not love.
Do you within a fudden impulse feel,
To drefs, look florid, and appear genteel?
Do you affect to strike the gazing maid
With glittering gems, with velvet, and brocade?
Your fnowy wrifts do Mecklin pendants grace,
And do the smartest wigs adorn thy face?
Do you correct your gait, adjust your air,
And bid your taylor take uncommon care?
Before your glafs each morning do you stand,
And tie your neckcloth with a critick's hand?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For dreffing ever was a mark of love.
o books and worldly cares no longer please? Can no diverfions give your heart-pains ease?
Have wealth and honours loft their wonted charms?
And does ambition yield to Cupid's arms?
Is your whole frame diffolv'd, by love ingrofs'd,
To ftudy, intereft, and preferment loft?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For if aught elfe prevails, you do not love.
Do all your thoughts, your wishes, and defires,
Comply with her, and burn with mutual fires?
If she loves balls, affemblies, operas, plays,
Do they in you the fame amusement raise ?
If the at Ombre loves to wafte the night,
Do you in Ombre take the fame delight?
If to the ring her graceful horfes prance,
Does your new chariot to the ring advance?
If in the Mall fhe chufes to appear,
Or if at court, do you attend her there?
What she commends, does your officious tongue
Approve, and cenfure what the judges wrong?
Are all her loves and her averfions thine?
In all her joys and forrows doft thou join?
Art thou, my friend, united to her frame,
Thy heart, thy paffions, and thy foul the fame?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For without fympathy you cannot love.
Didft thou e'ér ftrive (once more fincerely fay) With friends and wine to drive thy cares away? And have e'en these endeavours prov'd in vain ? Will neither friends nor wine remove thy pain? Doft thou fit penfive, full of thought, repine, And, in thy turn, forget the circling wine?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For if wine drowns your flame, you do not love.
Art thou a tame, refign'd, submissive swain?
Canft thou bear fcorn, repulfes, and difdain?
Can no ill-treatment nor unkind returns,
Quench the ftrong flame which in thy marrow burns?
But do they rather aggravate thy fmart,
And give a quicker edge to every dart?
Does not each scornful look, or angry jest,
Drive the keen paffion deeper in thy breast?
Do not her poignant questions and replies,
Thy partial ears agreeably furprize?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For if you can refent, you do not love.
Whole live-long days you have enjoy'd her fight,
Say, were your eyes e'er fated with delight?...
Did not you wish next moment to return?
Did not your breaft with stronger ardours burn ?
Did not each view another view provoke?
And every meeting give a deeper ftroke?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For there is no fatiety in love.
Perhaps you judge it an imprudent flame,
And therefore live at distance from the dame;
But what is the effect? does abfence heal
Thofe wounds, which fmarting in her fight, you feel?
Does not to her your mind unbidden stray?
Does 'not your heart confefs her distant fway?
Does not each rising thought inhance your pain?
And don't you long to fee her once again ?
From hence a real passion you may prove,
For that which abfence cancels is not love.
Suppofe, once more, your parents or your friends (Either for peevish or prudential ends)
Should thwart thy choice, thy promis'd blifs oppose,
Would't thou for her engage all these thy foes?
Would't thou defpife an angry father's frown,
And scorn the noify cenfures of the town?
Could't thou, poffefs'd of her, with patience fee
The coxcomb's finger pointed forth at thee?
Would it not vex you, as you pass along,
To hear the little fpleen of every tongue?
• There goes the fond young fool, who t'other day,
In heedlefs wedlock threw himfelf away;
And, to indulge the rash ungovern'd heat
Of a vain paffion, loft a good eftate ??
Would not fuch infults grate thy tender ear?
Could't thou, befides, without compunction, bear
The fcornful fmile and the difdainful fneer?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For he, who loves with reason, does not love.
Still muft I touch thee in a tend'rer part:
Would not a happy rival stab thy heart?
Could't thou behold the darling of thy breast
With freedom by another youth carefs'd?
Say, could'ft thou to thy dearest friend afford
A kifs, a fmile, or one obliging word?
Say, at the publick ball, or private dance,
When the brisk couples artfully advance,
Could'ft thou, unmov'd with indignation, stand:
If to another the refign'd her hand?
Would
your heart felt at ease? or would it fwell
With all the pains, the fharpeft paints of hell?
From hence a real paffion you may prove,
For, without jealousy, you cannot love.
To the laft queftion of thy trufty friend
(Tho' many more might ftill be afk'd) attend:
To purge her virtue, or revenge her wrongs,
(For beauty is the theme of busy tongues)
Should blood be call'd for in the doubtful strife,
Would't thou with pleasure part with blood-or life?
Would't thou all.dangers in her caufe defpife,
And meet unequal foes for fuch a prize?
Would it not plant new courage in thy heart,
And double vigour to thy arm impart ?
|