Cease, Damon, cease, I’ll hear no more;

Your fulsome flattery give o’er;

I scorn this mean fallacious art

By which you’d steal, not win, my heart:

In me it never can compassion move,

And sooner will aversion raise than love.

If you to love would me incline,

Assert the man, forbear to whine;

Let time and plain sincerity

And faithful love your pleaders be;

For trust me, Damon, if those fail,

These servile wheedling tricks will ne’er prevail.