Answer to Cloe Jealous. the Author Sick
Yes, fairest Proof of Beauty’s Pow’r,
Dear Idol of My panting Heart,
Nature points This my fatal Hour:
And I have liv’d; and We must part.
While now I take my last Adieu,
Heave Thou no Sigh, nor shed a Tear;
Lest yet my half-clos’d Eye may view
On Earth an Object worth it’s Care.
From Jealousy’s tormenting Strife
For ever be Thy Bosom free’d:
That nothing may disturb Thy Life,
Content I hasten to the Dead.
Yet when some better-fated Youth
Shall with his am’rous Parly move Thee;
Reflect One Moment on His Truth,
Who dying Thus, persists to love Thee.
