Poem 28

From town fair Arabella flies;The beaux unpowder'd grieve:The rivers play before her eyes;The breezes, softly breathing, rise;The Spring begins to live.

Her lovers swore, they must expire,Yet quickly find their ease;For, as she goes, their flames retire;Love thrives before a nearer fire,Esteem by distant rays.

Yet soon the fair one will return,When Summer quits the plain:Ye rivers, pour the weeping urn;Ye breezes, sadly sighing, mourn;Ye lovers, burn again!

'Tis constancy enough in loveThat nature's fairly shown:To search for more, will fruitless prove;Romances, and the turtle-dove,The virtue boast alone.