Classic Poem

Think not, Florinda , your Disdain
Shall make me feel one Moment's Pain:
I to the constant could be true,
But can despise the scornful too.

What tho' I talk'd of Flames and Darts,
Of Racks and Tortures, Pains and Smarts;
Such common Cant could ne'er have mov'd
A Thing less vain to think I lov'd.

'Tis true, your Slave I could have been,
Thro' your Disguise had I not seen;
But then I had pretended less — —
Who feels the most can least express.

Nor are you wrong'd — — I strove to cheat
The artful Jilt, the vain Coquet;
And, while you glory to be such,
You ne'er can be deceiv'd too much.

Those Arts which you so fondly prize
Lose all the Conquests of your Eyes;
'Tis not enough we once admire,
True Love's a steady, mutual Fire.

This gen'rous Passion could you know,
Be more in Truth, and less in Show,
You still might find your Damon true,
Tho' now he swells as much as you.