Is well by wit's more lasting flames supplied. Though short my stature, yet my name extends To heav'n itself, and earth's remotest ends. 40 Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame[9] Inspired young Perseus with a gen'rous flame; Turtles and doves of diff'ring hues unite, And glossy jet is paired with shining white. If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign, 45 But such as merit, such as equal thine, By none, alas! by none thou can'st be moved, Phaon alone by Phaon must be loved! Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ, Once in her arms you centered all your joy: 50 No time the dear remembrance can remove, For oh! how vast a memory has love?[10] My music, then, you could for ever hear, And all my words were music to your ear. You stopped with kisses my enchanting tongue, 55 And found my kisses sweeter than my song.[11] In all I pleased, but most in what was best; And the last joy was dearer than the rest.[12] Then with each word, each glance, each motion fired, You still enjoyed, and yet you still desired, 60 Till all dissolving in the trance we lay, And in tumultuous raptures died away. The fair Sicilians now thy soul inflame; Why was I born, ye gods, a Lesbian dame? But ah! beware, Sicilian nymphs! nor boast 65 That wand'ring heart which I so lately lost; Nor be with all those tempting words abused, Those tempting words were all to Sappho used. And you that rule Sicilia's happy plains, Have pity, Venus,[13] on your poet's pains! 70 Shall fortune still in one sad tenor run, And still increase the woes so soon begun? Inured to sorrow from my tender years, My parent's ashes drank my early tears; My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame, 75 Ignobly burned in a destructive flame:[14] An infant daughter late my griefs increased, And all a mother's cares distract my breast.[15] Alas! what more could fate itself impose, But thee, the last and greatest of my woes? 80 No more my robes in waving purple flow, Nor on my hand the sparkling diamonds glow; No more my locks in ringlets curled diffuse The costly sweetness of Arabian dews, Nor braids of gold the varied tresses bind, 85 That fly disordered with the wanton wind: For whom should Sappho use such arts as these? He's gone, whom only she desired to please! Cupid's light darts my tender bosom move, Still is there cause for Sappho still to love: 90 So from my birth the sisters fixed my doom, And gave to Venus all my life to come; Or, while my muse in melting notes complains,