130 THE POEMS OF ANNE �The wand'rer, now I loose, or share, �With ev'ry lovly maid, Who make the hearts of men their care, �Shall have their own, betray'd. �Our charms on them we vainly prove, And boast we Conquests gain, �Where one, a victime falls to love, A Thousand Tyrants reign. �A SONG �Persuade me not, there is a Grace �Proceeds from Silvia's Voice or Lute, �Against Miranda's charming Face To make her hold the least Dispute. �Musick, which tunes the Soul for Love, And stirs up all our soft Desires, �Do's but the glowing Flame improve, Which pow'rful Beauty first inspires. �Thus, whilst with Art she plays, and sings �I to Miranda, standing by, Impute the Music of the Strings, �And all the melting Words apply �JEALOUSY �A Song �Vain Love, why do'st thou boast of Wings, That cannot help thee to retire! �When such quick Flames Suspicion brings, As do the Heart about tnee fire. �Still Swift to come, but when to go Thou shou'd'st be more Alas! how Slow. ��� �
