From whence I doubt it will not be removed.
Ah, what unlucky chance that way me led?
O Love! thy force thou might'st elsewhere have proved!
And shewed thy power, where thou art not obeyed!
"The conquest's small, where no resist is made."
But nought, alas, avails it to complain;
I rest resolved, with patience to endure.
The fire being once dispersed through every vein,
It is too late to hope for present cure.
Now Philoparthen must new follies prove,