Ode to Sylvia

In flowery flelds, in cool retreats, With wounded heart and weeping eyes, I've sought the happy Muses' seats, Since first your beauty did surprize.

But, oh! too late my doom's declar'd: These charming scenes create desire; For every sight inflames the bard, And every breath foments the fire.

I, who Love's golden darts defy'd, His pointed shafts, his piercing bow, An all-commanding force have try'd; Yet sink beneath the mighty woe.

Cease, dear disturber of my rest, Let some choice remedy be found; Oh! may the spear that struck my breast Assuage the grief, and heal the wound!

Your charms inthrall, your wit confines, Each sprightly swain that views the field: Where your prevailing lustre shines, The fairest nymphs are forc'd to yield.

So, when the splendid lamp of day Shoots forth his wide-extending fires; Each star contracts his sickly ray, And with a fading pomp retires.