Softest Airs, O Muse, inspire,
At thy wounded Friend's Desire!
Reach my Lute! strain ev'ry String!
Fair Montelia I would sing!

How her Eyes illustrious shine!
Armies there of Cupids join:
Round about how fierce they dart,
Read, O read it on my Heart!

See Diana in her Mien!
In her Shape see Beauty's Queen!
Love design'd, and form'd her Waist,
Round her when his Arms he cast.

When the little Rover press'd,
Night succeeding Night her Breast,
On each Side those Mountains rose
Which so many Sweets disclose.

'Midst a thousand, who can trace,
Who can picture ev'ry Grace?
Short of each, alass! I speak — —
Muse forbear, my Lute I break!