Classic Poem

I.

'Tis strange, Belinda , you shou'd ask,
To learn , what you so oft bestow !
You now impose too hard a Task ,
And I my Weakness needs must show.

II.

What Love is not, I know full well:
Blind Mortals , when they talk of Pain,
And Joys of Heaven , or of Hell ,
By Negatives the Theme maintain.

III.

True Love is not that rash Desire,
That sudden Start of Grief , and Joy ,
Which soon becomes a raging Fire,
And does as soon it self destroy.

IV.

Who call this Love , that Name disgrace,
Or never felt the noble Flame :
Before I saw your heav'nly Face ,
I too imagin'd Love the same.

V.

No! tis a Passion so divine,
The strongest Words elude our Pains,
When we this Ardour wou'd define;
The Image uncompleat remains.

VI.

'Tis what your charming Eyes inspire;
'Tis what I feel ; but can't express :
To know , like me, what you desire,
Belinda , you must feel no less.