Written in a Quarrel
Think, Delia, with what cruel haste
Our fleeting pleasures move,
Nor heedless thus in sorrow waste
The moments due to love.
Be wise, my fair, and gently treat
These few that are our friends;
Think, thus abus'd, what sad regret
Their speedy flight attends!
Sure in those eyes I lov'd so well,
And wish'd so long to see,
Anger I thought could never dwell,
Or anger aim'd at me.
No bold offence of mine I knew
Should e'er provoke your hate;
And, early taught to think you true,
Still hop'd a gentler fate.
With kindness bless the present hour,
Or oh! we meet in vain!
What can we do in absence more
Than suffer and complain?
Fated to ills beyond redress,
We must endure our woe;
The days allow'd us to possess,
'Tis madness to forgo.