What need I more; 'Twere Treason to dispute:
The Grant was Royal: that decides the Suit:
Shall vulgar Laws Imperial Power constrain?
Kings, and the Gods, can never act in vain.
She finish'd here, the Queen of ev'ry Grace,
Disdain vermillioning her heav'nly Face;
Our Hearts take Fire, and all in Tumult rise,
And one Wish sparkles in a thousand Eyes.
O might some Champion finish these Debates,
My Sword shou'd end, what now my Muse relates.
Up rose the Judge, on each Side bending low,
A crafty Smile accompanies the Bow,
Ulysses-like, a gentle Pause he makes,
Then, raising by Degrees his Voice, he speaks.
In you, my Lords, who judge, and all that hear,
Methinks I read your Wishes for the Fair,
Nor can I wonder; even I contend
With secret Pain, unwilling to offend;
Unhappy, thus oblig'd to a Defence
That may displease such Heav'nly Excellence.
Might we the Laws on any Terms abuse,
So bright an Influence were the best Excuse.
Let Niobe's just Doom, the vile Disgrace
Of the Propetides polluted Race,
Let Death, or Shame, or Lunacy, surprise
Who dare to match the Lustre of her Eyes:
Aloud the fairest of the Sex complain
Of Captives lost, and Love's invok'd in vain.
At
