The Sence of a Letter Sent Me, Made into Verse; to a New Tune

In vain I have labour’d the Victor to prove
Of a Heart that can ne’er give Admittance to Love:
So hard to be won
That nothing so young
Could e’er have resisted a Passion so long.

But nothing I left unattempted or said,
To soften the Heart of the Pityless Maid;
Yet still she was shy,
And would blushing deny,
Whilst her willinger Eyes gave her Language the Lye.

When before the Impregnable Fort I lay down,
I resolv’d or to die, or to Purchase Renown,
But how vain was the Boast!
All the Glory I lost,
And now vanquish’d and sham’d I’ve quitted my Post.