Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/270

 132 THE POEMS OF ANNE ���A SONG �'Tis strange, this Heart within my breast, Reason opposing, and her Pow'rs, �Cannot one gentle Moment rest, �Unless it knows what's done in Yours. �In vain I ask it of your Eyes, �Which subt'ly would my Fears controul; For Art has taught them to disguise, �Which Nature made t' explain the Soul. �In vain that Sound, your Voice affords, Flatters sometimes my easy Mind; �But of too vast Extent are Words In them the Jewel Truth to find. �Then let my fond Enquiries cease, And so let all my Troubles end: �For, sure, that Heart shall ne'er know Peace, Which on Anothers do's depend. ���A SONG �The Nymph, in vain, bestows her pains, That seeks to thrive, where Bacchus reigns; In vain, are charms, or smiles, or frowns, All Immages his torrent drowns. �Flames to the head he may impart, But makes an Island, of the heart; So inaccessible, and cold, That to be his, is to be old. ��� �