Here a proud Nymph with painful Steps I chase,
The Winds out-flying in our nimble Race;
Stay Daphnè, stay———In vain, in vain I try
To stop her Speed, redoubling at my Cry;
O'er craggy Rocks and rugged Hills she climbs;
And tears on pointed Flints her tender Limbs;
But caught at length, just as my Arms I fold,
Turn'd to a Tree, she yet escapes my Hold.
In my next Love a different Fate I find:
Ah! which is worse? the False, or the Unkind?
Forgetting Daphnè, I Corónis chose,
A kinder Nymph———too kind for my Repose.
The Joys I give but more enflame her Breast,
She keeps a private Drudge to quench the rest;
How, and with whom, the very Birds proclaim[1]
Her black Pollution, and reveal my Shame.
Hard Lot of Beauty! fatally bestow'd,
Or given to the False, or to the Proud;
By sev'ral Ways they bring us equal Pain,
The False betray us, and the Proud disdain.
Scorn'd, and abus'd; from mortal Loves I fly,
To seek more Truth in my own Native Sky;
Venus, the fairest of immortal Loves,
Bright as my Beams, and gentle as her Doves,
With glowing Eyes, confessing hot Desires,
She summons Heav'n and Earth to quench her Fires,
- ↑ Discover'd by a Crow.
