To a Lady, whose Maid, having given her a Manuscript, I sent her, and being ask'd from whom, she receiv'd it, reply'd — from the Conjurer himself, she thought

Whilst your Sage Maid does on my Papers look,
And sees Chains, Flames and Altars in my Book,
Light'ning and Thunder scatter'd up and down,
And Heaven and Hell, drawn in each smile and frown,
No wonder, every hint she should improve;
There is a certain Magick dwells in Love.
But while my Thoughts flow from a wounded Heart,
Mine's Magick Nature, 'tis not Magick Art.
All that my skill, my little skill can boast,
Is, not to sind my Heart, but know it lost.
Like weak Magicians, who their Spir'ts can raise,
But have not Power their fury to appease,
I, with unwarranted presumption play,
And raise fierce Love, which I can never lay.
But if thou tak'st me to thy Circling Arms,
I'll brave the Fiend, and fear no Counter Charms.