( 5 )
Ready to seize his Long-despair'd of Prize,With more than Mortal Extacy he flies, And youthful Fury sparkles in his Eyes. She fled:—He like Apollo chas'd the Fair;The Fair to shun him took not Daphne's Care: With swiftest Speed at first she scours the Field,And flying, seems as half averse to Yield; The wanton Winds her Snowy limbs expose, And at each Blast unlook'd-for Charms disclose, Each well-turn'd Leg attracts the Lover's Eyes, And the Nymph seems more beauteous as she flies: But now, with short fetch'd steps she moves more slow, Her panting Sides her slacken'd Paces show; Back on the Swain she looks—She trips; She falls; And, falling, on her much lov'd Thyrsis calls:
Thyrsis
