The vain Pursuit

Chloe, when you are pleas'd Commands to lay,
Though 'twere on Kings, they'd readily obey;
Much more may I then, so much less than they.

But Ah! I fear, my humble Verse will move
You rather to despise it than approve,
For I can write of nothing else but Love.

Of nothing else, 'tis my eternal Theme,
That flows, still, with an unexhausted stream
In all I say, or do, or think, or dream.

Sometimes I take my Book and go to Prayer;
But Love, fond Love, ev'n interrupts me there,
And turns my vain Devotions into Air.

Yet, though so true to Love, I ne're cou'd find
No Balm of comfort for my wounded mind;
There's not a Star in Heav'n but what's unkind!

For the hard she that I am doom'd t' obey,
From my pursuit for ever flies away,
And Fate it self's too weak to bribe her stay.

Shadows that Fleet before us o'er the Plain,
Follow as fast when we come back again,
But she ne're turns, and cannot be o'ertane.

This is the riged Fate I'me forc't to bear;
And tell me, Fair one, is it not severe,
That so much Love shou'd meet so much despair?

Despair, the bitter Bowl, which, I've heard tell,
Does to the Brim with such strong Poison swell,
As makes the Furies lash themselves in Hell.

Her Name I will conceal; my Reason why,
Because she shall not blame me when I dy,
That one so low shou'd have a thought so high.