The
INDIFFERENT
.
From
the
Italian
of
Metastasio
.
THANKS
,
CLOE
,
thy
coquetting
art
At
length
hath
heal'd
my
love-sick
heart
,
At
length
thy
slave
is
free
;
I
feel
no
tyrant's
proud
controul
,
I
feel
no
inmate
in
my
soul
,
But
peace
and
liberty
.
No
longer
now
a
fierce
desire
In
anger
masks
its
amorous
fire
,
And
fiercer
burns
suppress'd
,
I
blush
not
when
thy
name
I
hear
,
I
meet
thee
suddenly
,
and
fear
No
fluttering
in
my
breast
.
In
dreams
I
ev'ry
trifle
see
,
Yet
very
rarely
dream
of
thee
:
I
wake
,
nor
think
about
thee
:
When
absent
I
ne'er
wish
thee
near
:
And
when
thou'rt
present
I
not
fear
,
Nor
pray
to
be
without
thee
.
I
think
,
hear
,
talk
about
thy
charms
,
Nor
stoop
the
head
,
nor
fold
the
arms
;
Nay
ev'n
my
wrongs
sit
easy
.
And
when
my
favour'd
rival's
near
And
eyes
me
with
insulting
leer
,
His
triumphs
never
teaze
me
.
Put
on
thy
looks
of
cold
disdain
,
Or
speak
respectful
,
'tis
in
vain
,
Nor
frowns
nor
smiles
can
move
.
Those
lips
no
more
have
words
that
bind
,
Those
eyes
no
more
have
light
to
find
The
path
that
leads
to
love
.
Seasons
,
which
wont
to
take
their
dye
Of
foul
or
fair
,
from
CLOE'S
eye
,
Now
their
own
livery
wear
.
This
place
I
hate
,
and
that
I
love
,
The
fen's
a
fen
,
the
grove's
a
grove
,
If
absent
thou
,
or
there
.
Judge
if
I
speak
like
one
sincere
,
Still
I
confess
your
face
is
fair
,
But
so
are
twenty
faces
;
And
if
plain
truth
will
not
offend
,
You've
now
some
features
I
could
mend
,
Which
once
appear'd
all
graces
.
Nay
more
,
I
own
,
when
from
my
heart
I
strove
to
tug
the
fatal
dart
I
cut
my
heart
in
sunder
:
But
to
relieve
a
constant
pain
,
And
to
retrieve
one's
self
again
,
What
would
one
not
go-under
?
The
fluttering
bird
in
viscous
snare
Entangled
,
willingly
will
spare
For
liberty
a
feather
;
In
time
again
the
feather
grows
,
And
wise
by
danger
made
,
he
knows
To
shun
the
snare
for
ever
.
But
still
I
hear
you
smiling
say
,
'Tis
sign
you've
flung
their
chains
away
,
You
take
such
pains
to
shew
'em
.
Why
,
CLOE
,
there's
a
fond
delight
Our
former
dangers
to
recite
,
And
let
our
neighbours
know
'em
.
After
the
thunder
of
the
wars
,
The
veteran
thus
displays
his
scars
,
And
tells
you
of
his
pains
;
The
galley-slave
,
enslav'd
no
more
,
Shews
you
the
shackles
which
he
wore
,
And
where
their
mark
remains
.
I
talk
,
'cause
talking
gives
delight
,
I
please
myself
not
CLOE
by't
,
Nor
care
if
she
believe
;
And
when
myself
she
deigns
to
name
,
Whether
she
praise
my
song
or
blame
,
I
neither
joy
nor
grieve
.
For
me
I
quit
a
fickle
fair
,
CLOE
has
lost
a
heart
sincere
,
Who
first
should
sing
Te
deum
?
You'll
never
find
so
true
a
swain
;
But
women
full
as
false
as
vain
,
By
dozens
one
may
see
'em
.