Dear Howard, from the soft assaults of Love,
Poets and painters never are secure;
Can I untouch'd the fair one's passions move?
Or thou draw beauty, and not feel its power?

To great Apelles when young Ammon brought
The darling idol of his captive heart;
And the pleas'd nymph with kind attention sat,
To have her charms recorded by his art:

The am'rous master own'd her potent eyes;
Sigh'd when he look'd, and trembled as he drew;
Each flowing line confirm'd his first surprise,
And as the piece advanc'd, the passion grew.

While Philip's son, while Venus' son was near,
What different tortures does his bosom feel!
Great was the rival, and the god severe:
Nor could he hide his flame, nor durst reveal.

The prince, renown'd in bounty as in arms,
With pity saw the ill-conceal'd distress;
Quitted his title to Campaspe's charms,
And gave the fair one to the friend's embrace.

Thus the more beauteous Cloe sat to thee,
Good Howard, emulous of the Grecian art:
But happy thou, from Cupid's arrow free,
And flames that pierc'd thy predecessor's heart.

Had thy poor breast receiv'd an equal pain;
Had I been vested with the monarch's power;
Thou must have sigh'd, unlucky youth, in vain;
Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure.

Though to convince thee, that the friend did feel
A kind concern for thy ill-fated care,
I would have sooth'd the flame I could not heal;
Giv'n thee the world, though I withheld the fair.