Ill fitted to sustain thy father’s hate.
Go then, I charge thee by thy generous love,
That fatal to my father thus may prove;
On me alone let dark affliction fall,
Whose heart for thee will gladly suffer all.
Then haste thee hence, Palemon, ere too late,
Nor rashly hope to brave opposing fate.
“She ceased: while anguish in her angel-face
O’er all her beauties showered celestial grace:
Not Helen, in her bridal charms arrayed,