An Ode: While from Our Looks, Fair Nymph, You Guess

WHILE from our Looks, fair Nymph, You guess
The secret Passions of our Mind ;
My heavy Eyes, You say, confess
A Heart to Love and Grief inclin'd.

There needs, alas ! but little Art,
To have this fatal Secret found :
With the same Ease You threw the Dart,
'Tis certain, You may show the Wound.

How can I see You, and not love ;
While You as op'ning East are fair ?
While cold as Northern Blasts You prove;
How can I love, and not despair?

The Wretch in double Fetters bound
Your Potent Mercy may release :
Soon, if my Love but once were crown'd.
Fair Prophetess, my Grief would cease.