An ODE.

I.

While from our Looks, fair Nymph, You guess
 The secret Passions of our Mind;
 My heavy Eyes, You say, confess
 A Heart to Love and Grief inclin'd. 

II.

There needs, alas! but little Art,
 To have this fatal Secret found:
 With the same Ease You threw the Dart,
 'Tis certain, You may show the Wound. 

III.

How can I see You, and not love;
 While You as op'ning East are fair? 
While cold as Northern Blasts You prove;
 How can I love, and not despair? 

IV.

The Wretch in double Fetters bound
 Your Potent Mercy may release:
 Soon, if my Love but once were crown'd,
 Fair Prophetess, my Grief would cease.