TELL me, you stars that our affections move, Why made ye me that cruel one to love? Why burns my heart her scorned sacrifice, Whose breast is hard as crystal, cold as ice? God of Desire! if all thy votaries Thou thus repay, succession will grow wise; No sighs for incense at thy shrine shall smoke, Thy rites will be despis'd, thy altars broke. O! or give her my flame to melt that snow Which yet unthaw'd does on her bosom grow; Or make me ice, and with her crystal chains Bind up all love within my frozen veins. |