I'm fcorch'd, I burn, like Fields of Corn o' Fire,
When Winds to fan the furious Blaze confpire:
To flaming Etha Phaon's pleas'd to foam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer Flame at home.
No more my Thoughts in even Numbers flow, Verse best befits a Mind devoid of Woe;
No more I court the Nymphs I once careft,
But Phaon rules unrival'd in my Breast.
Fair is thy Face, thy Youth is fit for Joy;
A fatal Face to me, too cruel Boy!
Enflav'd to those enchanting Looks, that wear.
The Blush of Bacchus, and Apollo's Air:
Affume the Garb of either God, in Thee
We ev'ry Grace of either God may sée:
Yet they confefs'd the Power of Female Charms,
In Daphne's Flight, and Ariadne's Arms;
Tho' neither Nymph was fam'd for Wit, to move
With melting Airs the rigid Soul to Love.
To me the Mufe vouchfafes celeftial Fire,
And my foft Numbers glow with warm Defire;
Alcaus and my felf alike fhe crown'd,
For Softness I, and he for Strength renown'd.
Beauty, 'tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But Wit my want of Beauty well fupplies:
My Shape I own is fhort, but yet my Name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the Voice of Fame.
If I'm not Fair, young Perfeus did adore
The fwarthy Graces of the Royal * Moor:
The milk-white Doves with mottl'd Mates are
And the gay Parrot to the Turtle's kind.
But if you'll fly from Love's connubia! Rites, 'Till one as charming as your felf invites, None of our Sex can ever blefs your Bed;
Ne'er think of Wooing, for you ne'er can Wed.
Yet when you read my Verfe,you lik'd eachLine, And fwore no Numbers were fo fweet as mine; I fang (that pleasing Image still is plain,
Such tender Things we Lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling Notes I rais'd,
You with fierce Kiffes ftifl'd what you prais'd.
Some winning Grace in ev'ry A& you found;
But in full Tides of Extafie were drown'd,
When murm'ring in the melting Joys of Love,"
Round yours my curling Limbs began to move.
But now the bright Sicilian Maids adore!
The Youth, who feem'd fo fond of me before!
Send back, fend back my Fugitive, for he
Will vow to you the Vows he made to me:
That smooth deceiving Tongue of his can charm
The coyest Ear, the roughest Pride disarm.
Oh, aid thy Poetefs, great Queen of Love, Aufpicious to my growing Paffion prove!
Fortune was cruel to my tender Age,
And still purfues with unrelenting Rage.
Of Parents, whilst a Child, I was bereft,
To the wide World an helpless Orphan left:
My Brother in a Strumpet's vile Embrace
Lavish'd a large Estate, to buy Difgrace;
And doom'd to Traffick on the Main is tofs'd,
Winning with Danger what with Shame he loft;
And vows Revenge on me, who dar'd to blame
His Conduct, and was careful of his Fame.
And then (as if the Woes I bore befide
Were yet too light) my little Daughter dy'd:
But after all these Pangs of Sorrow past,
A worse came on, for Phaon came at laft!
No Gems, nor rich embroider'd Silks I wear,
No more in artful Curls I comb my Hair;
No golden Threads the wavy Locks inwreath, "Nor Syrian Oils diffusive Odours breath:
Why shou'd I put fuch gay Allurements on,
Now he, the Darling of my Soul, is gone?
Soft is my Breaft, and keen the killing Dart,
And he who gave the Wound, deferves my Heart;
My Fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he fhou'd wound, and Sappho's Bofom bleed.
By the fmooth Blandishments of Verfe betray'd,
In vain I call my Reason to my Aid;
The Mufe is faithlefs to the Fair at beft,
But fatal in a Love-fick Lady's Breast.
Yet is it strange fo fweet a Youth fhou'd dart Flames fo refiftless, to a Woman's Heart? Him had Aurora feen, he foon had feiz'd Her Soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:: Chaste Cynthia, did the once behold his Charms, For Phaon's wou'd forfake Endymion's Arms:
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