To One That Asked Me Why I Loved J. G. Poem by Ephelia

Why do I Love? go, ask the Glorious Sun
Why every day it round the world doth Run:
Ask
Thames
and
Tiber
, why they Ebb and Flow:
Ask Damask Roses, why in
June
they blow:
Ask Ice and Hail, the reason, why they're Cold:
Decaying Beauties, why they will grow Old:
They'll tell thee, Fate, that every thing doth move,
Enforces them to this, and me to Love.
There is no Reason for our Love or Hate,
'Tis irresistible, as Death or Fate;
'Tis not his Face; I've sense enough to see,
That is not good, though doted on by me:
Nor is't his Tongue, that has this Conquest won;
For that at least is equalled by my own:
His Carriage can to none obliging be,
'Tis Rude, Affected, full of Vanity:
Strangely Ill-natured, Peevish, and Unkind,
Inconstant, False, to Jealousy inclined;
His Temper could not have so great a Pow'r,
'Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous years that Women so adore,
Are past in him: he's twice my Age and more;
And yet I love this false, this worthless Man,
With all the Passion that a Woman can;
Dote on his Imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to Love; I Love, and know not why.
Sure 'tis Decreed in the dark Book of Fate,
That I should Love, and he should be ingrate.