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EPISTLES.
III.
To what my eyes admir’d before
I add a thouſand graces more,10
And Fancy blows into a flame
The ſpark that from her beauty came.
IV.
The object thus improv’d by thought,
By my own image I am caught:
Pygmalion ſo, with fatal art,
Poliſh’d the form that ſtung his heart.16
TO MIRA.
I.
When wilt thou break, my ſtubborn heart!
O Death! how ſlow to take my part!
Whatever I purſue denies;
Death, Death itſelf, like Mira, flies.
II.
Love and Deſpair, like twins, poſſeſt5
At the ſame fatal birth my breaſt:
No hope could be; her ſcorn was all
That to my deſtin’d lot could fall.
III.
I thought, alas! that Love could dwell
But in warm climes, where no ſnow fell;10
Like plants that kindly heat require
To be maintain’d by conſtant fire.
