For her a sacred flame his bosom fed:
Nor let the wretched slaves of folly scorn,
This genuine passion, Nature’s eldest born!
’Twas his with lasting anguish to complain,
While blooming Anna mourned the cause in vain
Graceful of form, by nature taught to please,
Of power to melt the female breast with ease;
To her Palemon told his tender tale
Soft as the voice of summer’s evening gale;
His soul, where moral truth spontaneous grew,