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.