Why ſleeps the noble ardour of thy blood,
Which from thy anceſtors ſo many ages paſt,
From Rollo down to Bevil flowed,
And then appeared again at laſt,
In thee when thy victorious lance
Bore the diſputed prize from all the youth of France.
II.
In the firſt trials which are made for fame,
Thoſe to whom fate ſucceſs denies,
If taking council from their ſhame;
They modeſtly retreat are wiſe;
But why ſhould you, who ſtill ſucceed,
Whether with graceful art you lead.
The fiery barb, or with a graceful motion tread
In ſhining balls where all agree
To give the higheſt praiſe to thee?
Such harmony in every motion’s found,
As art could ne’er expreſs by any found.
III.
So lov’d and prais’d whom all admire,
Why, why ſhould you from courts and camps retire?
If Myra is unkind, if it can be
That any nymph can be unkind to thee;
If penſive made by love, you thus retire,
Awake your muſe, and ſtring your lyre;
Your tender ſong, and your melodious ſtrain
Can never be addreſs’d in vain;
She needs muſt love, and we ſhall have you back again.
