William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
To Fix Her,Twere a Task As VainTobias George Smollett (17211771)
T
To count the April drops of rain,
To sow in Afric’s barren soil,—
Or tempests hold within a toil.
False as the fowler’s artful snare,
Inconstant as the passing wind,
As winter’s dreary frost unkind.
Its joys she’ll neither share nor prove;
Though hundreds of gallants await
From her victorious eyes their fate.
I sometimes strive to break her chain;
My reason summon to my aid,
Resolved no more to be betray’d.
Dispell’d by one enchanting glance;
She need but look, and I confess
Those looks completely curse, or bless.
Sure, something more than human’s there;
I must submit, for strife is vain,
’Twas destiny that forged the chain.