He look'd around,           

             And often found,           

             A damsel passing fair;           

             "She's good enough," he then would cry,           

             And rub his hands, and wink his eye,           

             "I'll be enamour'd there!"           

                        

             He thus resolved; but had not power           

             To hold the humour "half an hour"—           

             And critics, vers'd in Cupid's laws,           

             Pretended they had found a clause,           

             In an old volume on the shelf;—           

             Which said, if arrows chanc'd to fly,           

             When no bright nymph was passing by,           

             And lighted on a vacant breast;           

             The swain, Narcissus-like possest,           

             Strait doated on himself!           

                        

             If so, his anxious friends declar'd All future trouble might be spar'd:             A heart thus pierc'd would never rove, Nor meanly seek a second love; No distance e'er could give him pain—             No rivalry torment his brain. Self-love will bear a many knocks, A thousand mortifying shocks; One moment languish in despair,        

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