A
SONG
.
I.
WHAT
Torments
must
the
Virgin
prove
That
feels
the
Pangs
of
hopeless
Love
?
What
endless
Cares
must
rack
the
Breast
That
is
by
sure
Despair
possest
.
II
.
When
Love
in
tender
Bosoms
reigns
,
With
all
its
soft
,
its
pleasing
Pains
,
Why
should
it
be
a
Crime
to
own
The
fatal
Flame
we
cannot
shun
.
III
.
The
Soul
by
Nature
form'd
sincere
,
A
slavish
forc'd
Disguise
must
wear
;
Left
the
unthinking
World
reprove
The
Heart
that
glows
with
generous
Love
.
IV
.
But
oh
in
vain
the
Sigh's
represt
,
That
gently
heaves
the
pensive
Breast
;
The
glowing
Blush
,
the
falling
Tear
,
The
conscious
Wish
,
and
silent
Fear
.
V.
Ye
soft
Betrayers
aid
my
Flame
,
And
give
my
new
Desires
a
Name
:
Some
Power
my
gentle
Griefs
redress
,
Reveal
,
or
make
my
Passion
less
.