I fly, ye Nymphs, I fly! tho' Fear affail The Woman, yet the Lover must prevail. In Death what Terrors can deferve my Care? The Pangs of Death are gentler than Defpair. Ye Winds, and Cupid Thou, to meet my Fall Your downy Pinions fpread! my Weight is fmall. Thus refcu'd, to the God of Verse I'll bow, Hang up my Lute, and thus infcribe my Vow. To Phoebus grateful Sappho gave this Lute; The Gift did both the God and Giver fuit. But, Phaon, why fhou'd I this Toil indure, When thy Return wou'd foon compleat the Cure? Thy Beauty and its balmy Pow'r wou'd be A Phœbus and Leucadian Rock to me. O harder than the Rock to which I go, And deafer than the Waves that war below! Think yet, oh think! fhall future Ages tell Or hadft thou rather fee this tender Breast To plead my Caufe, and court thee with Success! No more, ye Lesbian Nymphs, defire a Song, Mute is my Voice, my Lute is all unftrung. My-Phaon's fled, who made my Fancy fhine, (Ah! yet I fcarce forbear to call him- mine.). Phaon is fled! but bring the Youth again, Infpiring Ardors will revive my Vein. But why, alas! this unavailing Pray'r? Vain are my Vows, and fleet with common Air: My MyVows the Winds disperse,and make their sport, But will not waft him to the Lesbian Port. Yet if you purpose to return, 'tis wrong Will hand the Rudder, and direct the Sails. She thinks you fcarce can give a Reason why. |