T O 
 
 Mrs. CREWE. 
 
 W HERE the lovelieft Expreflion to Feature is join’d, 
 By Nature’s mod delicate Pencil defign’d ; 
 
 Where Blufhes unbidden and Smiles without Art 
 Speak the Sweetnefs and Feeling that dwell in the Heart; 
 Where in Manners enchanting no Blemifli we trace, 
 
 But the Soul keeps the Promife we had from the Face : 
 Sure Philofophy, Reafon, and Coldnefs muft prove 
 Defences unequal to (hield us from Love. 
 
 Then tell me, myfterious Enchanter, O ! tell, 
 
 By what wonderful Art. or by what magic Spell, 
 
 My Heart is fo fenced, that for once I am wife, 
 
 And gaze without madnefs on Amoret’s Eyes: 
 
 That my Wifties, which never were bounded before, 
 
 Are here bounded by Friendfhip, and alk for no more. 
 
 Is it Reafon ?—no, That my whole Life will belye, 
 
 For who fo at variance as Reafon and I ? 
 
 Is’t Ambition that fills up each Chink of my Heart, 
 
 Nor allows to one fofcer Senfation a Part ? 
 
 Ah! no, for in this all the World muft agree 
 That one Folly was never fufficient for me. 
 
 Is 
 
[ 2 ] 
 
 Is my Mind on Diftrefs fo intenfely employ’d ? 
 
 Or by Pleafure relax’d, or Variety cloy’d ? 
 
 For, alike in this only, Enjoyment and Pain 
 Both flacken the Springs of the Nerves which they {train, 
 That I’ve felt each Reverfe that from Fortune can flow, 
 That I’ve tafted each Blifs which the Happieft know; 
 
 Has {till been the whimfical Fate of my Life, 
 
 Where Anguifli and Joy have been ever at ftrifc. 
 
 But tho’ vers’d in th’ Extremes both of Pleafure and Pain, 
 I am {till but too ready to feel them again. 
 
 If then for this once in my Life I am free, 
 
 And efcape from a Snare might catch wifer than me; 
 
 ’Tis that Beauty alone but imperfectly charms, 
 
 For, tho’ Brightnefs may dazzle, 'tis Kindnefs that warms. 
 As on Suns in the Winter with Pleafure we gaze, 
 
 But feel not their Force, tho’ their Splendor we praife; 
 
 So Beauty our juft Admiration may claim, 
 
 But Love, and Love only our Hearts can enflame. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 3.<o& 
 
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