I.

Why, fantastic Beauty , why
Grant so much , and give no more ?
Rather Daphne , let me dye ,
Scorn'd by her, whom I adore.

II.

Still your kind consenting Eyes
Mine with equal Ardour meet,
While unhappy Damon lyes
Fondly sighing at your Feet .

III

But when I your Bosom press,
Tho' it pants with soft Desire ,
Flying from my warm Caress,
Pale , and frighted you retire.

IV.

Yet that Bliss , you fear to tast,
Is the highest we can prove;
And that Youth , which thus you wast ,
Will not always stay for Love .