148 THE POEMS OP ANNE �The World a vast Meander is, �Where Hearts confus'dly stray ; 10 �Where Few do hit, whilst Thousands miss �The happy mutual Way: �Where Hands are by stern Parents ty'd, �Who oft, in Cupid's Scorn, Do for the widow'd State provide, �Before that Love is born: �Where some too soon themselves misplace; �Then in Another find The only Temper, Wit, or Face, �That cou'd affect their Mind. 20 �Others (but oh ! avert that Fate ! ) �A well-chose Object change: Fly, Silvia, fly, ere 'tis too late; �Fall'n Nature's prone to range. �And, tho' in heat of Love we swear �More than perform we can; No Goddess, You, but Woman are, �And I no more than Man. �Th' impatient Silvia heard thus long; �Then with a Smile reply'd: 30 �Those Bands cou'd ne'er be very strong, �Which Accidents divide. �Who e'er was mov'd yet to go down, �By such o'er-cautious Fear; Or for one Lover left the Town, �Who might have Numbers here? �Your Heart, 'tis true, is worth them all, �And still preferr'd the first ; But since confess'd so apt to fall, �'Tis good to fear the worst. 40 ��� �
