To a Lady, saying with a smile, she fear'd I would not perform my Promise

O Doubt it not; or doubt if Truth be true,
All promise, is performance, made to you.
He that adores, brings Incense in his Hands;
Who dares withhold whatever Heaven demands?
When o'er the Seas Neptune exerts his sway,
In the struck Rock what rebel Wind shall stay?
Sharp as his Trident Flies each Glance you Dart,
But meets no Rock in a soft Lover's Heart.
When the Soul Acts, what thought shall flag behind,
The Flames you raise, mount swifter than the Wind.
But whilst, thus smiling you impose my task,
Your Eyes give more, than what your Lips can ask.
And yet, your Conqu'ring killing Pow'r's so great,
You Force, and Rob me, while you thus intreat.
All gen'rous grants, from the Heart ravisht flow;
What need you ask, my Heart is yours, you know.
Whilst to obey those smiles the Lover flies,
Grant him but this — the promise of those Eyes.