Elegy (How was I blest when I was free)

How was I blest when I was free
From Mercy, and from Cruelty;
When I could write of Love at ease,
And ghess at Passions in my peace;
When I could sleep, and in my Breast
No love-sick Thoughts disturb'd my rest:
When in my brain of her sweet face
No Torturing Idea was,
Not Planet-struck with her Eyes Light,
But blest with Thoughts as calm as Night!
Now I could sit and gaze to Death;
And vanish with each sigh, I Breath:
Or else in her victorious Eye
Dissolve to tears, dissolving dye,
Nor is my Life more pleasant than
The Minutes of condemned Men,
Tost by strange Fancies, wrack't by Fears,
Sunk by Despair, and drown'd in Tears,
And dead to Hope; for, what bold H[…]
Dares hope for such a Bliss as she?
And yet I am in love; ah! who
That ever saw her, was not so?
What Tigers unrelenting Seed,
Can see such Beauties, and not bleed?
Her eyes two sparks of Heavenly fire,
To kindle, and to charm desire,
Her Cheeks Aurora's blush, her Skin
So delicately smooth, and thin,
That you my see each azure Vein,
Her Bosoms Snowy whiteness stain:
But with so rich a Tincture, as
China 'bove baser metals has,
She's crown'd with unresisted Light
Of blooming Youth, and vigorous Spr'ite,
Careless charms, unstudied sweetness,
Innate vertue, humble greatness,
And modest freedom, with each grace
Of Body, and of Mind, and Face,
So pure, that Men, nor Gods can find
Throughout that Body, or that Mind
A fault, but this, to disapprove,
She cannot, or she will not love.
Ah! then, some God possess her heart
With mine uncessant vows, and smart,
Grant but one hour that she may be
In love, and then she'll pitty me.
Is it not pitty such a ghest,
As Cruelty, should arm that Breast
Against a love assaults it so?
Can Heavenly minds such rigour know?
Then make her know, her Beauties must
Decay, and molter into Dust:
That each swift Atome of her glass,
Runs to the ruin of her face;
That those fair blossoms of her Youth,
Are not so lasting as my truth,
My lasting firm Integrity:
Tell her all this, and, if there be
A. Lesson to present her Sence
Of more perswading Eloquence,
Teach her that too, for all will prove
Too little to provoke her Love.
Thus dying people use to rave,
And I am grown my Passions slave;
For fall I must, my lot's Despair,
Since I'm so worthless, she so fair.