Paraphrase
on
Cant.
5.
6.
&c.
OH
!
How
his
Pointed
Language
,
like
a
Dart
,
Sticks
to
the
softest
Fibres
of
my
Heart
,
Quite
through
my
Soul
the
charming
Accents
slide
,
That
from
his
Life
inspiring
Portals
glide
;
And
whilst
I
the
inchanting
sound
admire
,
My
melting
Vitals
in
a
Trance
expire
.
Oh
Son
of
Venus
,
Mourn
thy
baffled
Arts
,
For
I
defye
the
proudest
of
thy
Darts
:
Undazled
now
,
I
thy
weak
Taper
View
,
And
find
no
fatal
influence
accrue
;
Nor
would
fond
Child
thy
feebler
Lamp
appear
,
Should
my
bright
Sun
deign
to
approach
more
near
;
Canst
thou
his
Rival
then
pretend
to
prove
?
Thou
a
false
Idol
,
he
the
God
of
Love
;
Lovely
beyond
Conception
,
he
is
all
Reason
,
or
Fancy
amiable
call
,
All
that
the
most
exerted
thoughts
can
reach
,
When
sublimated
to
its
utmost
streach
.
Oh
!
altogether
Charming
,
why
in
thee
Do
the
vain
World
no
Form
or
Beauty
see
?
Why
do
they
Idolize
a
dusty
clod
,
And
yet
refuse
their
Homage
to
a
God
?
Why
from
a
beautious
flowing
Fountain
turn
,
For
the
Dead
Puddle
of
a
narrow
Urn
?
Oh
Carnal
Madness
!
sure
we
falsly
call
So
dull
a
thing
as
man
is
,
rational
;
Alas
,
my
shining
Love
,
what
can
there
be
On
Earth
so
splendid
to
out-glitter
thee
?
In
whom
the
brightness
of
a
God-head
Shines
,
With
all
its
lovely
and
endearing
Lines
;
Thee
with
whose
light
Mortallity
once
blest
,
Would
throw
off
its
dark
Veil
to
be
possest
;
Then
altogether
Lovely
,
why
in
thee
Do
the
vain
World
no
Form
or
Beauty
see
.