Song. To Mira
“Foolish Love! begone,” said I,
“Vain are thy attempts on me;
“Thy soft allurements I defy:
“Women, those fair dissemblers, fly;
“My heart was never made for thee.”
Love heard, and straight prepar'd a dart:
“Mira, revenge my cause,” faïd he.
Too sure 't was shot; I feel the smart,
It rends my brain, and tears my heart.
O Love! my conqu'ror, pity me.
“Vain are thy attempts on me;
“Thy soft allurements I defy:
“Women, those fair dissemblers, fly;
“My heart was never made for thee.”
Love heard, and straight prepar'd a dart:
“Mira, revenge my cause,” faïd he.
Too sure 't was shot; I feel the smart,
It rends my brain, and tears my heart.
O Love! my conqu'ror, pity me.
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