As panting on Septimius' breast,
Dissolv'd in amorous joy,
His Acme lay supremely blest;
Thus spoke the happy boy:

“O Acme, if that from my soul
“I doat not upon thee;
“Content, while years on years shall roll,
“Thine, only thine to be!

“May I, no friend, no succour near,
“Some green-ey'd lion meet,
“Midst Lybia's sandy regions drear,
“Midst India's scorching heat!”

The God of love, at length content,
Drew forth his golden dart;
And sneezing, from the right, consent,
It sunk in Acme's heart.

Gently she rais'd her bending head;
And, ripe in dewy bliss,
Her lips upon his eye-lids laid,
Then breath'd a madd'ning kiss:

When thus—“Septimius, charming youth,
“Let us one master own!
“'Tis Love who sees, who knows our truth;
“Be Love our god alone!

“With all his rage, his sweetest wants,
“My trembling bosom dies;
“E'en than thine own more fierce it pants,
“More fondly warm my sighs!”

The God of Love, once more content,
Drew forth his golden dart;
And sneezing, from the right, consent,
Deep pierc'd Septimius' heart.

Pleas'd with the happy omen, both
Now weave one roseate chain;
Septimius vows eternal truth,
And Acme vows again.

He to proud Rome's extended sway
His faithful maid prefers;
And she, the partial debt to pay,
An equal flame avers.

Then tell me, swains, if ever fair
A softer passion mov'd?
And, o, ye nymphs, alike declare
If ever youth so lov'd?