Page:Poems upon Several Occasions.djvu/44

32 And Fancy blows into a Flame The Spark, that from her Beauty came. The Object thus improv'd by Thought, By my own Image I am caught: Pygmalion so, with fatal Art, Polish'd the Form that stung his Heart.

HEN wilt thou break, my stubborn Heart? O Death, how slow to take my part! Whatever I pursue, denies, Death, Death it self, like Myra flies. Love and Despair, like Twins, possest At the same fatal Birth my Breast; No Hope could be, her Scorn was all That to my destin'd Lot cou'd fall. I thought, alas! that Love cou'd dwell But in warm Climes, where no Snow fell; Like Plants, that kindly Heat require, To be maintain'd by constant Fire. IV. That