My dazled Eyes a radiant Form behold,
Splendid with Light, like Beams of burning Gold,
Eternal Rays his shining Temples grace,[1]
Eternal Youth sat blooming on his Face;
Trembling I listen, prostrate on the Ground,
His Breath perfumes the Grove, and Musick's in the Sound.
Cease, Lover, cease thy tender Heart to vex
In fruitless Plaints of an ungrateful Sex;
In Fate's eternal Volume it is writ,
That Women ever shall be Foes to Wit:
With proper Arts their sickly Minds command,
And please 'em with the things they understand,
With noisie Fopperies their Hearts assail,
Renounce all Sense; how shou'd thy Songs prevail,
When I, the God of Wit, so oft cou'd fail?
Remember me; and in my Story find
How vainly Merit pleads to Womankind.
I by whom all things shine, who tune the Sphears,
Create the Day, and gild the Night with Stars,
Whose Youth and Beauty from all Ages past
Sprang with the World, and with the World shall last:
How oft with fruitless Tears have I implor'd
Ungrateful Nymphs? And, tho' a God, ador'd?
When cou'd my Wit, my Beauty, or my Youth,
Move one hard Heart? or mov'd, secure its Truth?
- ↑ Apollo.
