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Poem by George Crabbe
[November, 1772.] Whoe'er thou art, thy master know; He has been, is, or shall be so. What is he, who clad in arms, Hither seems in haste to move, Bringing with him soft alarms, Fears the heart of man to prove; Yet attended too by charms-- Is he Cupid, God of Love? Yes, it is, behold him nigh, Odd compound of ease and smart; Near him [stands] a nymph, whose sigh Grief and joy, and love impart; Pleasure dances in her eye, Yet she seems to grieve at heart. Lo! a quiver by his side, Arm'd with darts, a fatal store! See him, with a haughty pride, Ages, sexes, all devour; Yet, as pleasure is describ'd, Glad we meet the tyrant's power. Doubts and cares before him go, Canker'd jealousy behind; Round about him spells he'll throw, Scatt'ring with each gust of wind On the motley crew below, Who, like him, are render'd blind. This is love! a tyrant kind, Giving extacy and pain; Fond deluder of the mind, Ever feigning not to feign; Whom no savage laws can bind, None escape his pleasing chain.
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