An Ode To A Lady She Refusing To Continue A Dispute With Me, And Leaving Me In The Argument

Spare, generous victor, spare the slave,

Who did unequal war pursue;

That more than triumph he might have,

In being overcome by you.

In the dispute, whate'er I said,

My heart was by my tongue belied;

And in my looks you might have read

How much I argued on your side.

You, far from danger as from fear,

Might have sustain'd an open fight;

For seldom your opinions err,

Your eyes are always in the right.

Why, fair one, would you not rely

On reason's force with beauty's join'd?

Could I their prevalence deny,

I must at once be deaf and blind.

Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight aspired:

To keep the beauteous foe in view

Was all the glory I desired.

But she, howe'er of victory sure,

Contemns the wreath too long delay'd:

And arm'd with more immediate power,

Calls cruel silence to her aid.

Deeper to wound she shuns the fight;

She drops her arms, to gain the field;

Secures her conquest by her flight;

And triumphs, when she seems to yield.

So when the Parthian turn'd his steed,

And from the hostile camp withdrew,

With cruel skill the backward reed

He sent; and, as he fled, he slew.