I cannot talk of Love to thee,
Though thou art young and free and fair
There is a spell thou dost not see,
That bids a genuine love despair.
And yet that spell invites each youth,
For thee to sigh, or seem to sigh;
Makes falsehood wear the garb of truth,
And Truth itself appear a lie.
If ever Doubt a place possest
In woman’s heart, ‘t were wise in thine:
Admit not Love into thy breast,
Doqbp kthers’ love, nor trust in mine.
Perchance ‘t is feign’d, perchance sincere,
But false or true thou canst not tell;
So much hast thou from all to fear,
In that unconquerable spell.
Of all the herd that throng around,
Thy simpering or thy sighing train,
Come tell me who to thee is bound
By Love’s or Plutus’ heavier chain.
In some ‘t is Nature, some ‘t is Art
That bids them worship at thy shrine;
But thou deserv’st a better heart,
Than they or I can give for thine.
For thee, and such as thee, behold,
Is Fortune painted truly — blind!
Who doom’d thee to be bought or sold,
Has proved too bounteous to be kind.
Each day some tempter’s crafty suit
Would woo thee to a loveless bed:
I see thee to the altar’s foot
A decorated victim led.
Adieu, dear maid! I must not speak
Whate’er my secret thoughts may be;
Though thou art all that man can reck
I dare not talk of Love to thee .