So to be caught was ev'ry God's Desire;
Nor less than Venus can Zelinda fire.
Forgive him then, thou more than Heav'nly Fair,
Forgive his Rashness, punish'd by Despair.
All that we know which wretched Mortals feel
In those sad Regions where the Tortur'd dwell,
Is that they see the Raptures of the Blest,
And view the Joys that they must never taste.
MYRA SINGING.
THE Syrens, once deluded, vainly charm'd;
Ty'd to the Mast, Ulysses sail'd unharm'd:
Had Myra's Voice entic'd his list'ning Ear,
The Greek had stopt, and wou'd have dy'd to hear.
When Myra sings, we seek th' enchanting Sound,
And bless the Notes that can so sweetly wound:
What Musick needs must dwell upon that Tongue,
Whose Speech is tuneful as another's Song?
Such Harmony, such Wit, a Face so fair,
So many pointed Arrows, who can bear?
Who from her Wit, or from her Beauty flies,
If with her Voice she overtakes him, dies.
Like Soldiers so in Battel we succeed,
One Peril scaping, by another bleed;
