Cloe Jealous

FORBEAR to ask me, why I weep ;
Vex'd Cloe to her shepherd said ;
'Tis for my two poor straggling sheep
Perhaps, or for my squirrel dead.

For mind I what you late have writ ?
Your subtle questions, and replies ;
Emblems, to teach a female wit
The ways, where changing Cupid flies.

Your riddle purpos'd to rehearse
The general power that beauty has ;
But why did no peculiar verse
Describe one charm of Cloe's face ?

The glass, which was at Venus' shrine,
With such mysterious sorrow laid :
The garland (and you call it mine)
Which show'd how youth and beauty fade.

Ten thousand trifles light as these
Nor can my rage, nor anger move :
She should be humble, who would please ;
And she must suffer, who can love.

When in my glass I chanc'd to look ;
Of Venus what did I implore ?
That every grace which thence I took,
Should know to charm my Damon more.

Reading thy verse ; Who heeds, said I,
If here or there his glances flew ?
O free for ever be his eye,
Whose heart to me is always true.

My bloom indeed, my little flower
Of beauty quickly lost its pride ;
For, sever'd from its native bower,
It on thy glowing bosom died.

Yet car'd I not what might presage,
Or withering wreath, or fleeting youth ;
Love I esteem'd more strong than age,
And time less permanent than truth.

Why then I weep, forbear to know :
Fall uncontroll'd my tears, and free :
O Damon ! 'tis the only woe
I ever yet conceal'd from thee.

The secret wound with which I bleed
Shall lie wrapt up, e'en in my hearse ;
But on my tombstone thou shalt read
My answer to thy dubious verse.