O, she is the antidote to desire

Pious Selinda goes to Pray’rs, If I but ask the Favour; And yet the tender Fool’s in Tears, When she believes I’ll leave her.Wou’d I were free from Restraint, Or else had Hopes to win her; Wou’d she cou’d make of me a Saint,

Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, And black despair succeeds brown study.

Ah! Whither, whither shall I fly, A poor unhappy Maid; To hopeless Love and Misery By my own Heart betray’d?

Defer not till tomorrow to be wise, Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise.

Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.

In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers any body else to rail at me.