How wretched then, alas! should Daphnis grow?
Gods! how the very thought distracts him now!
E'en now, perhaps, some youth with happier charms
Lies folded in the fathless Delia's arms.
E'en now, the favours you design'd me, seem
To be too prodigally heap'd on him.
Close by your side, all languishing he stands,
And on your panting bosom warms his hands.
Straight in your lap he lies his envied head,
And makes the shrine of love his sacred bed.
Then glows his ravish'd soul with pointed flames,
And thoughts of heav'nly joys fill all his dreams.
Let not your passion be to me reveal'd,
But if you love, keep him you love conceal'd.