SONGS.
81
Celia! dear unhappy maid,
Forbear the weakness to upbraid
Which ought your scorn to move;
1 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:
All that I can, to thee I give;
And could I still to reason live,
I were thy captive yet.
