Ephelia

England

The Reply, By A Friend.

What Prayer incessant, to my Ears does fly?
What proud Presumption me of Tyranny
Accuseth? can Love whose pow'r is so Great,
Be taxèd with Ingratitude, or Hate?
Fond Girl forbear, and know that your Despair
Is want of Courage, could you once but dare
Your Victor, and my Vassal, you should see,
How Heav'n would punish his inconstancy:
But while your Hope on his fond Vows relies,
And thinks Heaven minds those little Perjuries,
You quit the greater Pow'r that you may claim
By Beauty's Conquest, the loss of it's your Shame:
When first to you he his Addresses made,
Smiles gave him Life, your frowns, strike him Dead;
But Viper-like, being in your Bosom warmed,
And his chilled Soul being into Action charmed
By th'Influence of your Beams, he straight denies
What gave his Love a Life, and from it flies;
From such a Rebel, as from Plagues I'd run;
'Twixt Love and Hate, is no comparison:
Nor is he worth your Anger, or your Scorn,
Do but forget that ever he was Born:
You can't believe the Gods would e'er create
Ingratitude, that Quintessence of Hate.
Think him a
Spectrum
,(1) that had only Shape
Without Substance, and Love did only Ape,
Then reassume that Pow'r, that Nature's Law
Gives to your Sex; be Wise, keep Slaves in Awe:
Be generous in Love, Love not in vain,
'Tis base to Love, where we're not Loved again.

Celadon
.
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