Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd? Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles, Now taken ample vengeance, made thee feel His piercing shaft, and taught thy heart profane With sacred awe, repentant, to confess The Son of Venus is indeed a God? I greet his triumph; for he has but claim'd His own; the breast that was by Nature form'd And destined for his temple Love has claim'd.
The great, creating Parent, when she breathed Into thine earthly frame the breath of life, Indulgently conferr'd on thee a soul Of finer essence, capable to trace, To feel, admire, and love, the fair, the good, Wherever found, through all her various works. And is not Woman, then, her fairest work, Fairest, and oft her best? endowed with gifts Potent to captivate, and softly rule The hearts of all men? chiefly such as thou, By partial Nature favour'd from the birth? Why wast thou, then, reluctant to confess The sovereignty of Love? so strangely deaf Through half thy genial season to the voice Of Nature, kindly calling thee to taste Felicity congenial to thy soul? This was the secret cause:—inscrutable To vulgar minds, who fancied thee foredoom'd To celibacy, for thyself alone Existing; but I rightlier judged my Friend— The cause was this: there lurk'd within thy breast A visionary flame; for, while retired In solitude, on classic lore intent, Thy fancy, to console thee for the loss Of female intercourse, conceived a Maid, With each soft charm, each moral grace, adorn'd, Fit Empress of thy soul; and oft would Hope Gaze on the lovely phantom, till at length She dared to stand on disappointment's verge, Anticipating such thy future bride. What wonder, then, that Chloe's golden locks Should weave no snare for thee? that Delia's eyes, So darkly bright, should innocently glance, Nor dart their lightnings through thy kindling frame? That many a Fair should unregarded pass, So far unlike the picture in thy mind? At last, in happy hour, my Friend beheld Partial, a Maid of mild, engaging mien, Of artless manners, affable, and gay, Yet modestly reserved, with native taste Endued, with genuine feeling, with a heart Expansive, generous, and a mind well-taught, Well-principled in things of prime concern. Still, as, with anxious doubt, thou didst pursue The delicate research, new virtues dawn'd Upon thy ravish'd view:—'twas She!—'twas She! Then marvelling Fancy saw her image live; And Hope her dream fulfill'd; then triumph'd Love; And Nature was obeyed.—
Yet still suspense Reign'd awful in thy breast, for who could stand Between the realms of happiness and pain, Waiting his sentence fearless? O my Friend! What was thy transport, when the gracious Maid With virgin blushes and approving smile Received thy vows, consented to be thine?
Now, then, let Friendship gratulate thy lot, Supremely blest! and let her fondly hope That, while the names of Husband, Father, thrill Thy soul with livelier joy, thou wilt, at times, Remember still, well pleased, the name of Friend.
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