140
Translations, &c.
No golden threads the wavy locks inwreath,
Nor Syrian oils diffusive odours breathe:
Why should I put such gay allurements on,
Now he, the darling of my soul, is gone? 80
Soft is my breast, and keen the killing dart,
And he who gave the wound deserves my heart:
My fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he should wound, and Sappho's bosom bleed.
By the smooth blandishments of verse betray'd, 85
In vain I call my reason to my aid:
The Muse is faithless to the fair at best,
But fatal in a love-sick lady's breast.
Yet is it strange so sweet a youth should dart
Flames so resistless to a woman's heart? 90
Him had Aurora seen, he soon had seiz'd
Her soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chaste Cynthia, did she once behold his charms,
For Phaon's would forsake Endymion's arms;
Venus would bear him to her bow'r above, 95
But there she dreads a rival in his love.
O fair perfection thou! nor youth, nor boy,
Fix'd in the bright meridian point for joy!
Come, on my panting breast thy head recline;
Thy love I ask not, only suffer mine: 100
While this I ask (but ask I fear in vain!)
See how my falling tears the letter stain.
At least why would you not vouchsafe to shew
A kind regret, and say, "My dear, adieu!"
Nor Syrian oils diffusive odours breathe:
Why should I put such gay allurements on,
Now he, the darling of my soul, is gone? 80
Soft is my breast, and keen the killing dart,
And he who gave the wound deserves my heart:
My fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he should wound, and Sappho's bosom bleed.
By the smooth blandishments of verse betray'd, 85
In vain I call my reason to my aid:
The Muse is faithless to the fair at best,
But fatal in a love-sick lady's breast.
Yet is it strange so sweet a youth should dart
Flames so resistless to a woman's heart? 90
Him had Aurora seen, he soon had seiz'd
Her soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chaste Cynthia, did she once behold his charms,
For Phaon's would forsake Endymion's arms;
Venus would bear him to her bow'r above, 95
But there she dreads a rival in his love.
O fair perfection thou! nor youth, nor boy,
Fix'd in the bright meridian point for joy!
Come, on my panting breast thy head recline;
Thy love I ask not, only suffer mine: 100
While this I ask (but ask I fear in vain!)
See how my falling tears the letter stain.
At least why would you not vouchsafe to shew
A kind regret, and say, "My dear, adieu!"
