To A Lady

    Spare, gen'rous 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 aspir'd:

  To keep the beauteous foe in view

    Was all the glory I desir'd.

    But she, howe'er of vict'ry sure.

    Contemns the wreath too long delay'd;

  And, arm'd with more immediate pow'r,

    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.