How shall a Lover come to know,
Whether he’s belov’d or no?
What dear things must she impart,
To assure him of her Heart?
Is it when her Blushes rise;
And she languish in her Eyes;
Tremble when he does approach;
Look pale, and faint at ev’ry Touch?
Is it, when a thousand ways
She does his Wit and Beauty praise;
Or she venture to explain,
In less moving Words, a Pain;
Tho’ so indiscreet she grows,
To confirm it with her Vows?
These some short-liv’d Passion moves,
While the Object’s by, she loves;
While the gay and sudden Fire
Kindles by some fond Desire:
And a Coldness will ensue,
When the Lover’s out of view.
Then she reflects with Scandal o’er
The easy Scene that past before:
Then, with Blushes, would recal
The unconsid’ring Criminal;
In which a thousand Faults she’ll find,
And chide the Errors of her Mind.
Such fickle weight is found in Words,
As no substantial Faith affords:
Deceiv’d and baffl’d all may be,
Who trust that frail Security.
But a well-digested Flame,
That will always be the same;
And that does from Merit grow,
Establish’d by our Reason too;
By a better way will prove,
‘Tis th’ unerring Fire of Love.
Lasting Records it will give:
And, that all she says may live;
Sacred and authentick stand,
Her Heart confirms it by her Hand.
If this, a Maid, well born, allow;
Damon, believe her just and true.