The INDIFFERENT. From the Italian of Metastasio. Thomas Seward Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.002 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. II. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 302-305. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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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 .