To
Philaster
.
Go
perjur'd
Youth
and
court
what
Nymph
you
please
,
Your
Passion
now
is
but
a
dull
Disease
,
With
worn-out
Sighs
deceive
some
list'ning
Ear
,
Who
longs
to
know
how
'tis
and
what
Men
swear
,
She'l
think
they'r
new
from
you
;
'cause
so
to
her
.
Poor
cousin'd
Fool
,
she
ne'er
can
know
the
Charms
Of
being
first
encircled
in
thy
Arms
.
When
all
Love's
Joys
were
innocent
and
gay
,
As
fresh
and
blooming
as
the
new-born
day
.
Your
Charms
did
then
with
native
Sweetness
flow
,
The
forc'd-kind
Complaisance
you
now
bestow
,
Is
but
a
false
agreeable
Design
,
But
you
had
Innocence
when
you
were
mine
,
And
all
your
Words
,
and
Smiles
,
and
Looks
divine
.
How
Proud
,
methinks
,
thy
Mistriss
does
appear
In
sully'd
Cloths
,
which
I'd
no
longer
wear
;
Her
Bosom
too
with
wither'd
Flowers
drest
,
Which
lost
their
Sweets
in
my
first
chosen
Breast
;
Perjur'd
imposing
Youth
,
cheat
who
you
will
,
Supply
defect
of
Truth
with
amorous
Skill
;
Yet
thy
Address
must
needs
insipid
be
,
For
the
first
Ardour
of
thy
Soul
was
all
possess'd
by
me