Letter from a Love-Sick Youth to a scornful Maid.
WHilst gales of sighs were sent from my
sad breast,
And thoughts of you would give my eyes no rest,
Snatching a midnight taper straight to write,
I did begin but fancy dull’d my fight;
Then pardon, if some blots do here appear,
While I entreat you to be kind as fair.
Pity the man that pines and sighs for you,
The man, who vows for ever to be true:
And thinks that nothing is for you too good:
O give me some, altho’ Camelion’s food:
Let me have hopes, altho’ I feed on air,
And run me not thus, head-long to despair:
Send me a cordial, dearest, or I die:
Tis thou or death! must end my misery:
One or the other, I must surely have:
You for a wife, or wed the silent grave:
I strive to wear the chain, and live in pain:
And, ’till I know my doom, I must remain.
ANSWER
SIR, YOur poetical fancy is very great, I suppose much greater than your passion: but if you are real, take notice, I give you leave to hope: Yet rely not too much upon that, for women’s minds are wavering. Indeed I could have wish’d you had plac’d your affections some where else: For tho’ I should admit you among the number of my servants, it is ten to one if ever you have what you desire. This letter,
