Who moſt deſire to live untimely fall,
But when we beg to die Death flies our call.
Adonis dies, and torn is the lov’d breaſt,
In midſt of joy, where Venus wont to reſt:10
That fate, which cruel ſeem’d to him, would be
Pity, relief, and happineſs, to me.
When will my ſorrows end? In vain, in vain,
I call to Heav’n, and tell the gods my pain;
The gods averſe, like Mira, to my pray’r,15
Conſent to doom whom ſhe denies to ſpare.
Why do I ſeek for foreign aids, when I
Bear ready by my ſide the pow’r to die?
Be keen, my Sword! and ſerve thy maſter well;
Heal wounds with wounds, and love with death repel.20
Straight up I roſe, and to my aching breaſt,
My boſom bare, the ready point I preſt,
When, lo! aſtoniſh’d, an unuſual light
Pierc’d the thick ſhade, and all around grew bright;
My dazzled eyes a radiant form[1] behold,25
Splendid with light like beams of burning gold;
Eternal rays his ſhining temples grace,
Eternal youth ſat blooming on his face;
Trembling I liſten, proſtrate on the ground,
His breath perfumes the grove, and music ’s in the ſound.30
“Ceaſe, Lover! ceaſe thy tender heart to vex
In fruitleſs plaints of an ungrateful ſex;
In Fate’s eternal volumes it is writ
That women ever ſhall be foes to wit.
- ↑ Apollo.
