Till Cypria’s self with envy heard
Each partial, each endearing word.
Say, beauteous tyrant! dost delight
To wound this tongue in wanton spite?
Because, alas! too well aware
That every wrong it yet could bear
Ne’er urged it once in angry strain
Of thy unkindness to complain;
But, suffering patient all its harms,
Still would it sing thy matchless charms,