See where the Thames, the purest stream

See where the Thames, the purest stream That wavers to the noon-day beam, Divides the vale below: While like a vein of liquid ore His waves enrich the happy shore, Still shining as they flow.

Nor yet, my Delia, to the main Runs the sweet tide without a stain, Unsullied as it seems: Thy nymphs of many a sable flood Deform with streaks of oozy mud The bosom of the Thames.

Some idle rivulets, that feed And suckle ev'ry noisome weed, A sandy bottom boast: For ever bright, for ever clear, The trifling shallow rills appear In their own channel lost.

Thus fares it with the human soul, Where copious floods of passion roll, By genuine love supplied: Fair in itself the current shows, But ah! a thousand anxious woes Pollute the noble tide.

These are emotions known to few; For where at most a vap'ry dew Surrounds the tranquil heart, Then, as the triflers never prove The glad excess of real love, They never prove the smart.

Oh then, my life, at last relent, Though cruel the reproach I sent, My sorrow was unfeign'd: Your passion, had I lov'd you not, You might have scorn'd, renounc'd, forgot, And I had ne'er complain'd.

While you indulge a groundless fear, Th' imaginary woes you bear Are real woes to me: But thou art kind, and good thou art, Nor wilt, by wronging thine own heart, Unjustly punish me.