‘Tis not that I am weary grownOf being yours, and yours alone,But with what face can I inclineTo damn you to be only mine?You, whom some kinder power did fashionBy merit and by inclinationThe joy at least of a whole nation.

Let meaner spirits of your sexWith humble aims their thoughts perplex,And boast if by their arts they canContrive to make one happy man;While moved by an impartial senseFavours, like Nature, you dispenseWith universal influence.

See the kind seed-receiving earthTo every grain affords a birth:On her no showers unwelcome fall,Her willing womb retains 'em all,And shall my Caelia be confined?No, live up to thy mighty mind,And be the mistress of Mankind!

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