Ah, Phillis, had I but bestow’d the art

Upon my verses, that I vainly gave

To fond designs and schemes to win your heart,

And tributes that abas’d me as your slave;

If that fine fervour that I freely pour’d

In suppliance at your feet had liv’d in rhyme,

And the soft warmth wherewith my soul ador’d

Been sav’d in numbers for applauding Time;

Had all th’ affection, spent on you alone,

Provok’d my fancy to poetic flights:

Fill’d my rapt brain with passions not my own,

And wafted me to dizzy lyric heights;

The scanty laurels of this feeble quill,

Believe me, kid, would sure be scantier still!