Is sure his direst rage to prove.
Was never maid, who dared to scorn
The subtle god’s tyrannic sway,
Whose heart was not more rudely torn
By his relentless archery.
Do what thou canst, that destined hour
Will come, when thou must feel Love’s dart;
Then war not thus against his power,
His fire will melt thine icy heart.
Oh, let his glowing influence then