Written in a Quarrel

Think, Delia, with what cruel haste Our fleeting pleasures move, Nor heedless thus in sorrow waste The moments due to love.

Be wise, my fair, and gently treat These few that are our friends; Think, thus abus'd, what sad regret Their speedy flight attends!

Sure in those eyes I lov'd so well, And wish'd so long to see, Anger I thought could never dwell, Or anger aim'd at me.

No bold offence of mine I knew Should e'er provoke your hate; And, early taught to think you true, Still hop'd a gentler fate.

With kindness bless the present hour, Or oh! we meet in vain! What can we do in absence more Than suffer and complain?

Fated to ills beyond redress, We must endure our woe; The days allow'd us to possess, 'Tis madness to forgo.