A SONG.

I.

DAMON in vain you strive to move;
 'Tis true my Heart was form'd for Love,
 And own its native Flame. 
But such a Flame, so pure a Fire,
 Philander only can inspire,
 And all its Softness claim. 

II.

No more of cruel Scorn complain,
 Too late, alas! you own'd your Pain,
 Too late to find a Cure. 
If Friendship to your Views be due,
 Taste all the Ease that can bestow,
 But Damon ask no more.