Though I thy Mithridates were, br Framed to defy the poison-dart, br Yet must thou fold me unaware br To know the rapture of thy heart, br And I but render and confess br The malice of thy tenderness. br br For elegant and antique phrase, br Dearest, my lips wax all too wise; br Nor have I known a love whose praise br Our piping poets solemnize, br Neither a love where may not be br Ever so little falsity.