While thus the Youth the Virgin's Pow'r defies,
Silent she views him still with softer Eyes.
Thoughts in her Breast a doubtful Strife begin,
If 'tis not happier now to lose, than win.
What God, a Foe to Beauty, would destroy
The promis'd Ripeness of this blooming Boy?
With his Life's Danger does he seek my Bed?
Scarce am I half so greatly worth, she said.
Nor has his Beauty mov'd my Breast to love,
And yet, I own, such Beauty well might move:
'Tis not his Charms, 'tis Pity would engage
My Soul to spare the Greeness of his Age.
What, that heroick Courage fires his Breast,
And shines thro' brave Disdain of Fate confest?
What, that his Patronage by close Degrees
Springs from th' imperial Ruler of the Seas?
Then add the Love, which bids him undertake
The Race, and dare to perish for my Sake.
Of bloody Nuptials, heedless Youth, beware!
Fly, timely fly from a too barb'rous Fair.
At Pleasure chuse; thy Love will be repaid!
By a less foolish, and more beauteous Maid.
But why this Tenderness, before unknown?
Why beats, and pants my Breast for him alone?
His Eyes have seen his num'rous Rivals yield,
Let him too share the Rigour of the Field,
Since by their Fates untaught, his own he courts,
And thus with Ruin insolently sports.
Yet for what Crime shall he his Death receive?
Is it a Crime with me to wish him live?
Shall his kind Passion his Destruction prove?
Is this the fatal Recompence of Love?
So fair a Youth, destroy'd, would Conquest shame,
And Nymphs eternally detest my Fame.
Still why should Nymphs my guiltless Fame upbraid?
Did I the fond Adventurer persuade?
Alas!
