My Words are Wind! She, deaf to all my Cries,
Takes Pleasure in the Mischief of her Eyes.
Like frisking Heifers, loose in flow'ry Meads,
She gads where-e'er her roving Fancy leads;
Yet still from me. Ah me, the tiresome Chace!
While, wing'd with Scorn, she flied my fond Embrace.
She flies indeed: but ever leaves behind,
Fly where she will, her Likeness in my Mind.
Ah turn thee then! unthinking Damsel! Why,
Thus from the Youth, who loves thee, should thou fly?
No cruel Purpose in my Speed I bear:
'Tis all but Love; and Love why should'st thou fear?
What idle Fears a Maiden Breast alarm!
Stay, simple Girl! a Lover cannot harm.