Strong God of arms, whose iron sceptre sways The freezing North, and Hyperborean seas, And Scythian colds, and Thracia's wintry coast, Where stand thy steeds, and thou art honour'd most! There most; but everywhere thy power is known, 300 The fortune of the fight is all thy own: Terror is thine, and wild amazement, flung From out thy chariot, withers even the strong: And disarray and shameful rout ensue, And force is added to the fainting crew. Acknowledged as thou art, accept my prayer, If aught I have achieved deserve thy care: If to my utmost power, with sword and shield, I dared the death, unknowing how to yield, And falling in my rank, still kept the field: 310 Then let my arms prevail, by thee sustain'd, That Emily by conquest may be gain'd. Have pity on my pains; nor those unknown To Mars, which, when a lover, were his own. Venus, the public care of all above, Thy stubborn heart has soften'd into love: Now, by her blandishments and powerful charms, When yielded she lay curling in thy arms, Even by thy shame, if shame it may be call'd, When Vulcan had thee in his net enthrall'd; 320 (Oh, envied ignominy, sweet disgrace, When every god that saw thee wish'd thy place!) By those dear pleasures, aid my arms in fight, And make me conquer in my patron's right: For I am young, a novice in the trade, The fool of love, unpractised to persuade: And want the soothing arts that catch the fair, But, caught myself, lie struggling in the snare: And she I love, or laughs at all my pain, Or knows her worth too well; and pays me with disdain. 330 For sure I am, unless I win in arms, To stand excluded from Emilia's charms: Nor can my strength avail, unless by thee Endued with force, I gain the victory! Then for the fire which warm'd thy generous heart, Pity thy subject's pains, and equal smart. So be the morrow's sweat and labour mine, The palm and honour of the conquest thine: Then shall the war, and stern debate, and strife Immortal, be the business of my life; 340 And in thy fane, the dusty spoils among, High on the burnish'd roof, my banner shall be hung: Rank'd with my champions' bucklers, and below, With arms reversed, the achievements of my foe: And while these limbs the vital spirit feeds, While day to night, and night to day succeeds, Thy smoking altar shall be fat with food Of incense, and the grateful steam of blood; Burnt-offerings morn and evening shall be thine; And fires eternal in thy temple shine. 350 The bush of yellow beard, this length of hair, Which from my birth inviolate I bear, Guiltless of steel, and from the razor free, Shall fall a plenteous crop, reserved for thee. So may my arms with victory be blest, I ask no more; let Fate dispose the rest.