"No more, my Belmour, shun these longing arms,
Thou quintessence of all thy Sex's charms;
At ten—behind the elm, where echoes sigh,
Shall, taught [by] me, teach thee my swain to die;
The conscious Moon shall fill her lucid horn,
And join thy Blush to mock the crimson morn;
The limpid Stream shall softly move along,
And hear its own sweet warble from thy tongue;
There come, dear boy, or vainly flow the streams,
There come, or vainly sheds the moon her beams;