SONGS.
75
O Celia! dear unhappy maid,
Forbear the weakneſs to upbraid
Which ought your ſcorn to move;
I know this beauty falſe and vain,
I know ſhe triumphs in my pain,
Yet ſtill I feel I love.
Thy gentle ſmiles no more can pleaſe,
Nor can thy ſofteſt friendſhip eaſe
The torments I endure;
Think what that wounded breaſt muſt feel
Which truth and kindneſs cannot heal,
Nor e'en thy pity cure.
Oft ſhall I curſe my iron chain,
And wiſh again thy milder reign
With long and vain regret;
