was what a lover sure might do.
the muse his ready quill employed,
no nearer bliss he could pursue;
that bliss clarinda cold deny'd—
“send word by charles how you do!”
the chill behest disarm'd his muse,
till passion all impatient grew:
he wrote, and hinted for excuse,
'twas, 'cause “he'd nothing else to do.”
but by those hopes i have above!
and by those faults i dearly rue!
the deed, the boldest mark of love,
for thee that deed i dare uo do!
o could the fates but name the price
would bless me with your charms and you!
with frantic joy i'd pay it thrice,
if human art and power could do!
then take, clarinda, friendship's hand,
(friendship, at least, i may avow;)
and lay no more your chillmand,—
i'll write whatever i've to do.