138
Translations, &c.
Yet they confess'd the pow'r of female charms
In Daphne's flight and Ariadne's arms;
Tho' neither nymph was fam'd for wit, to move 25
With melting airs the rigid soul to love.
To me the Muse vouchsafes celestial fire,
And my soft numbers glow with warm desire;
Alcæus and myself alike she crown'd,
For softness I and he for strength renown'd. 30
Beauty, ’tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But wit my want of beauty well supplies:
My shape I own is short, but yet my name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the voice of Fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore 35
The swarthy graces of the royal Moor[1].
The milk-white doves with mottled mates are join'd,
And the gay parrot to the turtle's kind.
But if you'll fly from love's connubial rites
Till one as charming as yourself invites, 40
None of our sex can ever bless your bed;
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.
Yet when you read my verse you lik'd each line,
And swore no numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang, (that pleasing image still is plain, 45
Such tender things we lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling notes I rais'd,
You with fierce kisses stifled what you prais'd:
In Daphne's flight and Ariadne's arms;
Tho' neither nymph was fam'd for wit, to move 25
With melting airs the rigid soul to love.
To me the Muse vouchsafes celestial fire,
And my soft numbers glow with warm desire;
Alcæus and myself alike she crown'd,
For softness I and he for strength renown'd. 30
Beauty, ’tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But wit my want of beauty well supplies:
My shape I own is short, but yet my name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the voice of Fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore 35
The swarthy graces of the royal Moor[1].
The milk-white doves with mottled mates are join'd,
And the gay parrot to the turtle's kind.
But if you'll fly from love's connubial rites
Till one as charming as yourself invites, 40
None of our sex can ever bless your bed;
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.
Yet when you read my verse you lik'd each line,
And swore no numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang, (that pleasing image still is plain, 45
Such tender things we lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling notes I rais'd,
You with fierce kisses stifled what you prais'd:
- ↑ Andromeda.
