An Expostulation for discover'd Love; which yet could not be conceal'd

Curst be the time when first my Soul inclin'd
To say, 'twas Love of her opprest my mind.
Curst too, the Wretch that did the Message bear,
That made her tender Nature grow severe,
And plung'd me, hopeless, deeper in Despair,
And curst my Self (if there a Curse remain,
If yet there be a Plague beyond disdain)
That did the Inauspicious lines indite,
That banisht me for ever from her sight,
When, were I to see Heav'n it self, 'twou'd be with less delight!
O Slave! O wretch, hopeless, forlorn, undone!
I graspt at Joy and pull'd my ruin on.
Did I not hear her talk and see her move?
Her negligence it self was fuel to my Love:
She sung, she danc't, conquer'd without controul
And every motion flasht upon the Soul,
Forc't it, with Charms o'er-power'd, to retire,
Which, when recover'd, did enhance desire,
And made me more adore and more admire!
All this with Silence I had still enjoy'd,
But my too forward Zeal all this destroy'd.
O Slave! O Wretch!—yet why shou'd I complain?
By Fate compell'd, I have reveal'd my pain,
And so shou'd do, were it to do again:
Long smother'd Flames at last will force their way,
And, when once Master, will no more obey.