I said to my Heart, between sleeping and waking, Thou wild Thing, that ever art leaping or aching, For the Black, for the Fair; In what Clime, in what Nation, Hast thou not felt a Fit of Pitapatation? ..Thus accused, the wild Thing have this serious Reply: See the Heart without Motion, though @3Celia@1 pass by; Not the Beauty she has, nor the Wit that she borrows, Give the Eye any Joys, or the Heart any Sorrows. When our @3Sappho@1 appears, whose Wit's so refined, I am forced to admire with the rest of Mankind: Whatever she says is with Spirit and Fire; Every Word I attend, but I only admire. @3Prudenia@1, as vainly too, puts in her Claim; Ever gazing on Heaven, though Man is her Aim. 'Tis Love, not Devotion, that turns up her Eyes: Those Stars of the World are too good for the Skies. But my @3Chloe@1, so lovely, so easy, so fair; Her Wit so genteel, without Art, without Care; When she comes in my Way, Oh! the Motion and Pain, The Leapings and Achings, they return all again. Thou wonderful Creature! A Woman of Reason! Never grave out of Pride, never gay out of Season! When so easy to guess, who this Angel should be, Would one think, that my @3Chloe@1 never thought is was she. |