Alboque simillima cygno

As Delia lovely Syren! sate The myrtle Shades among; Regardless of a farther Fate Than what her killing Eyes create, Philander beg'd a Song.

Too well, alas! the artful knew He'd not his suit give o'er; And cry'd—"by walking in the Dew," " I'm grown so hoarse"—"I vow'tis true"— " Dear Swain, insist no more!"—

At length, to his renew'd Address She yields, yet vows again She scarce can draw her Breath, much less In modulated Thrills express, Or raise one pleasing Strain.—

Such-like Evasions store the Heart Of ev'ry tuneful She, That one, unvers'd in Female Art, Must think them going to impart Like Swans, their Elegy.