Tormenting Thought! Yet cou'd I bear that Pain,
Or any Ill, but hearing her complain;
Intent on her, my Love forgets his own,
Nor frames one Wish, but for her sake alone.
Whome'er the Gods have destin'd to prefer,
They cannot make wretched, blessing her.
MACRO.
THAT Macro's Looks are good, let no Man doubt,
Which I, his Friend and Servant, thus make out.
On his dark Forehead a false Friend is writ,
Let none condemn the Light that shows a Pit.
Cocles, whose Face finds a Credit for his Heart,
Who can escape so smooth a Villain's Art?
Adorn'd with ev'ry Grace that can perswade,
Seeing, we trust; and trusting, are betray'd!
His Looks are Snares: But Macro's cry Beware,
Believe not, tho' ten thousand Oaths he swear.
If thou'rt deceiv'd, observing well this Rule,
Not Macro is the Knave, but thou the Fool.
In this one Point he and his Looks agree,
As they betray their Master, so did he.
