Poem by John Dryden

* * *

You charm'd me not with that fair face
Though it was all divine:
To be another's is the grace,
That makes me wish you mine.

The Gods and Fortune take their part
Who like young monarchs fight;
And boldly dare invade that heart
Which is another's right.

First mad with hope we undertake
To pull up every bar;
But once possess'd, we faintly make
A dull defensive war.

Now every friend is turn'd a foe
In hope to get our store:
And passion makes us cowards grow,
Which made us brave before. 

1. Epitaph on a Nephew in Catworth Church, Huntingdonshire
2. Epilogue to Henry II
3. On Mrs. Margaret Paston, of Barningham, in Norfolk
4. Upon Young Mr. Rogers, of Gloucestershire
5. Te Deum

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