Classic Poem

TO MISS DASHWOOD.

IN THE MANNER OF OVID .

O say, thou dear possessor of my breast,
Where's now my boasted liberty and rest!
Where the gay moments which once have known!
O, where that heart I fondly thought my own!
From place to place I solitary roam,
Abroad uneasy, not content at home.
I scorn the beauties common eyes adore;
The more I view them, feel thy worth the more;
Unmov'd I hear them speak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee, who art not there.
In vain would books their formal succour lend,
Nor Wit nor Wisdom can relieve their friend;
Wit can't deceive the pain I now endure,
And Wisdom shows the ill without the cure.
When from thy sight I waste the tedious day,
A thousand schemes I form, and things to say;
But when thy presence gives the time I seek,
My heart's so full, I wish, but cannot speak.

And could I speak with eloquence and ease,
Till now not studious of the art to please,
Could I, at woman, who so oft exclaim,
Expose (nor blush) thy triumph, and my shame,
Abjure those maxims, I so lately priz'd,
And court that sex, I foolishly despis'd,
Own thou hast soften'd my obdurate mind,
And thus reveng'd the wrongs of womankind;
Lost were my words, and fruitless all my pain,
In vain to tell thee, all I write in vain;
My humble sighs shall only reach thy ears,
And all my eloquence shall be my tears.

And now (for more I never must pretend)
Hear me, not as thy lover, but thy friend;
Thousands would fain thy little heart ensnare,
For without danger, none like thee are fair;
But wisely choose, who best deserves thy flame,
So shall the choice itself become thy fame;
Nor yet despise, though void of winning art,
The plain and honest courtship of the heart:
The skilful tongue in love's persuasive lore,
Though less it feels, will please and flatter more,
And, meanly learned in that guilty trade,
Can long abuse a fond, unthinking maid.
And since their lips, so knowing to deceive,
Thy unexperienc'd youth might soon believe;
And since their tears, in false submission drest,
Might thaw the icy coldness of thy breast;
O! shut thine eyes to such deceitful woe:
Caught by the beauty of thy outward show,
Like me, they do not love, whate'er they seem,
Like me — with passion founded on esteem.