Dear Phoebus, hear my only vow;
If e'er you loved me, hear me now.
That charming youth — but idle fame
Is ever so inclined to blame —
These men will turn it to a jest;
I'll tell the rhymes and drop the rest:
— — — — — — desire,
— — — — — — fire,
— — — — — — lie,
— — — — — — thigh,
— — — — — — wide,
— — — — — — ride,
— — — — — — night,
— — — — — — delight.