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The quiver fraught with flame, ye cannot spare
A conquest so alluring—prayers are vain.
Now wak'd the Morn, and led the festal Day
Fam'd through the nations, sacred to the loves
Of Paphos' Goddess, sacred to thy shade,
Adonis, forth collected legions pour
To splendid Sestos; from th'extremest verge
Edg'd by circumfluous Neptune, burst the hosts
Of clust'ring isles; Hæmonia's cloud-top'd hills,
And Cyprus' flow'ry vales their youths resign;
Ev'n thou, Cythera, view'st thy widow'd groves,
No more the seats of Beauty; on the brow
Of spicy Libanus no tunes of mirth
Rouse to the genial dance; the Phrygian swain
Feels the warm impulse, and Abydos' shore
Exhausts her social numbers; not a youth,
Lesson'd in Cupid's school, brooks absence; they,
Urg'd by report, fly panting to the scenes
Of gay festivity; not to the Gods
The solemn reverence, other altars court,
Their shrine is Beauty, their devotion, Love.
Swift
