ALMEDA.
Command the briny waves no more to flow,
Bid southern breezes ever cease to blow;
Say to the flowers, no more your fragrance yield,
Nor Ceres crown with joy the fertile field;
Bid Phœbus cease to gild the op’ning morn,
And Cynthia be of all her beauty shorn:
Would these obedient as thy vassals prove?
No more can I, dear Flavia, cease to love.
A youth possess’d of ev’ry moving art,