Oh Iris! let my sleeping Hours be fraught
With Joys, which you deny my waking Thought.
Is’t not enough you absent are?
Is’t not enough I sigh all day,
And lanquish out my Life in Care,
To e’ery Passion made a Prey?
I burn with Love, and soft Desire;
I rave with Jealousy and Fear:
All Day, for Ease, my Soul I tire;
In vain I search it ev’ry where:
It dwells not with the Witty or the Fair.
It is not in the Camp or Court,
In Business, Musick, or in Sport;
The Plays, the Park, and Mall afford
No more than the dull Basset-board.
The Beauties in the Drawing-room,
With all their Sweetness, all their Bloom,
No more my faithful Eyes invite,
Nor rob my Iris of a Sigh or Glance,
Unless soft Thoughts of her incite
A Smile, or trivial Complaisance.
Then since my Days so anxious prove,
Ah, cruel Tyrant! give
A little Loose to Joys in Love,
And let your Damon live.
Let him in Dreams be happy made,
And let his Sleep some Bliss provide:
The nicest Maid may yield in Night’s dark shade,
What she so long by Day-light had deny’d.
There let me think you present are,
And court my Pillow for my Fair.
There let me find you kind, and that you give
All that a Man of Honour dares receive.
And may my Eyes eternal Watches keep,
Rather than want that Pleasure when I sleep.
Leave a Reply