To Amasia ("In vain in slighted Numbers")

In vain in slighted Numbers I complain,
In vain I write, when I have spoke in vain.
Nor Tongue, nor Pen can you, Obdurate, move,
At once disdaining either Wit or Love.
In what a maze of griefs am I perplext!
Love, the first Crime, and writing was the next.
Both Crimes, yet both yield Anguish and Delight,
For while I live —
I'm doom'd to Love, and while I Love, to Write.
Tho' sense like yours permits no soft return,
Be mild at least, ah! do not, do not scorn.
Believe I Love you, be assur'd I do,
Assurd — I Love, and could adore you too;
Why should I urge what seems a Crime to you?
Yet I'll confess, tho' so confessing die,
'Tis I who Love you most, 'tis only I.
Of this, my Crime, as of desert I boast,
Yes, I am Ravish'd here —
To think, to know, and vow I Love you most.
Love is reported blind, tho' blind he be,
I see I Love —
And thou the object, all must own I see,
Spight of your haughty scorn, you see it too,
Tho' you disdain to look at me, you do.
At once your Pride and Reason you display;
Why should you cast the smallest Glance away?
Others with darts from shooting Eyes are struck,
Me you confound, and Kill without a look.
Would I could Learn, O teach this Charming Skill,
Teach me to save my self, tho' not to kill.
It cannot be, here the Obstruction lies,
Unhappy, Eyes I have —
And I must look, as long as I have Eyes.
'Twas they first drew the fatal Poyson in,
Would they — or I my self had never been,
But fate is past, I am, and they have seen.
Seen? — Were that all, your Slave had still been free.
But still the Soul Admires, whene'er they see.
O my Amasia! no, oh! no, ye Pow'rs!
She is not mine —
Nor wilt thou be, tho' I am ever yours.
Would I were yours, but that, ye Pow'rs Divine!
That cannot be, for thou would'st then be mine,
Can it not be? — what can't the Pow'rs above!
To them my slighted, humble suit I'll move.
Rather, to thee — thou art the Pow'r of Love.