But, oh! from this sprung ev'ry future ill,

This fatal beauty was the source of all.

Cleone.

Cleone.

'Tis often so, for beauty is a flow'r

That tempts the hand to pluck it.

Evanthe.

Evanthe.

Full three times

Has scorching summer fled from cold winter's

Ruthless blasts, as oft again has spring

In sprightly youth drest nature in her beauties,

Since bathing in Niphates'[5] silver stream,

Attended only by one fav'rite maid;

As we were sporting on the wanton waves,

Swift from the wood a troop of horsemen rush'd,

Rudely they seiz'd, and bore me trembling off,

In vain Edessa with her shrieks assail'd

The heav'ns, for heav'n was deaf to both our pray'rs.

The wretch whose insolent embrace confin'd me

 Prev. P 34/187 next