No more the Lesbian dames my passion move,
Once the dear objects of my guilty love:[[9]]
All other loves are lost in only thine,
Ah, youth ungrateful to a flame like mine!
Whom would not all those blooming charms surprise,
Those heavenly looks and dear deluding eyes?
The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear,
A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear.
Would you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair,
Not Bacchus' self with Phaon could compare: