With awful Homage, and submissive Dread
The Maid approach'd, on my declining Head
To pour the Oyls: She trembled as She pour'd;
With an unguarded Look She now devour'd
My nearer Face: and now recall'd her Eye,
And heav'd, and strove to hide a sudden Sigh.
And whence, said I, canst Thou have Dread, or Pain?
What can thy Imag'ry of Sorrow mean?
Secluded from the World, and all it's Care,
Hast Thou to grieve or joy, to hope or fear?
For sure, I added, sure thy little Heart
Ne'er felt  Anger, or receiv'd his Dart.