Томас Блэклок (Thomas Blacklock)

Song. Inscribed to a Friend. In imitation of Shenstone

Cease, cease, my dear friend, to explore
From whence, and how piercing my smart;
Let the charms of the nymph I adore,
Excuse, and interpret my heart:
Then how much I admire, you shall prove,
When like me you are taught to admire;
And imagine how boundless my love,
When you number the charms that inspire.

Than sunshine more dear to my sight,
To my life more essential than air,
To my soul she is perfect delight,
To my sense all that's pleasing and fair.
The swains who her beauty behold,
With transport applaud ev'ry charm,
And swear that the breast must be cold,
Which a beam so intense cannot warm.

Ah! say, will she slightly forego
A conquest, though humble, yet sure?
Will she leave a poor shepherd to wo,
Who for her ev'ry bliss would procure?
Alas! too presaging my fears,
Too jealous my soul of its bliss;
Methinks she already appears,
To foresee, and elude my address.

Does my boldness offend my dear maid?
Is my fondness loquacious and free?
Are my visits too frequently paid;
Or my converse unworthy of thee?
Yet when grief was too big for my breast,
And labour'd in sighs to complain,
Its struggles I oft have supprest,
And silence impos'd on my pain.

And oft, while, by tenderness caught,
To my charmer's retirement I flew,
I reproach'd the fond absence of thought,
And in blushing confusion withdrew.
My speech, though too little refin'd,
Though simple and aukward my mien;
Yet still, shouldst thou deign to be kind,
What a wonderful change might be seen!

Ah, Strephon! how vain thy desire,
Thy numbers and music how vain,
While merit and fortune conspire
The smiles of the nymph to obtain?
Yet cease to upbraid the soft choice,
Though it ne'er should determine for thee,
If thy heart in her joy may rejoice,
Unhappy thou never canst be.

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