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I fly, ye Nymphs, I fly! tho' Fear afsail
But, Phaon, why shou'd I this Toil indure, When thy Return wou'd soon compleat the Cure? Thy Beauty and its balmy Pow'r wou'd be A Phæbus 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! shall future Ages tell
•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