Her father chides her oft: Thou ow'st, says he, A husband to thyself, a son to me. She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed; She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head. Then, casting round his neck her tender arms, Sooths him with blandishments, and filial charms: Give me, my lord, she said, to live and die A spotless maid, without the marriage-tie. 'Tis but a small request; I beg no more Than what Diana's father gave before. The good old sire was softened to consent; But said her wish would prove her punishment; For so much youth, and so much beauty joined, Opposed the state which her desires designed. The God of Light, aspiring to her bed, } Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed, } And is by his own oracles misled. } And as in empty fields the stubble burns, Or nightly travellers, when day returns, Their useless torches on dry hedges throw, That catch the flames, and kindle all the row; So burns the god, consuming in desire, And feeding in his breast the fruitless fire: Her well-turned neck he viewed, (her neck was bare,) And on her shoulders her dishevelled hair: Oh were it combed, said he, with what a grace Would every waving curl become her face! He viewed her eyes, like heavenly lamps that shone; He viewed her lips, too sweet to view alone; Her taper fingers, and her panting breast: } He praises all he sees; and for the rest, } Believes the beauties yet unseen are best. } Swift as the wind, the damsel fled away, Nor did for these alluring speeches stay. Stay, nymph, he cried; I follow, not a foe: Thus from the lion trips the trembling doe; Thus from the wolf the frightened lamb removes, } And from pursuing falcons fearful doves; } Thou shun'st a god, and shun'st a god that loves. } Ah! lest some thorn should pierce thy tender foot, Or thou should'st fall in flying my pursuit, To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline, Abate thy speed, and I will bate of mine. Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly; Nor basely born, nor shepherd's swain am I. Perhaps thou know'st not my superior state, And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate. Me Claros, Delphos, Tenedos, obey; These hands the Patareian sceptre sway. The king of gods begot me: what shall be, Or is, or ever was, in fate, I see. Mine is the invention of the charming lyre; Sweet notes, and heavenly numbers, I inspire. Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart; But ah! more deadly his, who pierced my heart. Med'cine is mine, what herbs and simples grow } In fields and forests, all their powers I know, } And am the great physician called below. } Alas, that fields and forests can afford