Classic Poem

Forbear, kind Sir, forbid your tears to flow:
Since Delia's false, she is not worth a tear:
Quench the fierce flame, forget it e'er did glow
With ardent love — thy breast is too sincere.

Gentle she's not, nor constant as the dove,
But proud and fickle as the restless wind;
Her breast ne'er felt the pangs of injur'd love,
And Plutus only govern'd Delia's mind.

Tear from thy breast with scorn the venom'd dart,
Send it the fair whose bosom beats so cold;
Tell her it was the victim of a heart
Sold once for love — but purchas'd now by gold.

Then, if she ever felt the poignant pain,
Which none but Love has wounded ere can know;
Perhaps a sigh she may express again,
Perhaps a tear involunt'ry may flow.

Not all the grandeur that's by wealth possess'd,
Or all the favours Fortune e'er can pour;
Can calm the fair inconstant's fickle breast,
To that sweet ease her bosom felt before.

While Time, my friend, will bring his healing balm,
And still the waves that now tumultuous rise;
Another maid may ev'ry anguish calm,
And love returning bury all your sighs.

One too as lovely, tho' by far more true,
Then the lost fair of ev'ry charm divest;
With budding virtues opening to the view,
To give my friend — to make herself more blest.

Call not the Fates, then, cruel or unjust,
That still protect you with their guardian care,
Who'll yet commit some virgin to thy trust,
When Love shall reign sole victor o'er Despair.