The enamour’d deity pursues the chase; The scornful damsel shuns his loath’d embrace: In hunting beasts of prey her youth employs, And Phoebe rivals in her rural joys: With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare, And with a fillet binds her flowing hair. By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains, And still her vow’d virginity maintains. On wilds and woods she fixes her desire; Nor knows what youth and kindly love inspire. Her father chides her oft: “Thou owest,” says he, “A husband to thyself, a son to me.” She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed; She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head: Then, casting round his neck her tender arms, Soothes him with blandishments and filial charms. “Give me, my lord,” she said, “to live and die A spotless maid, without the marriage tie; ’Tis but a small request; I beg no more Than what Diana’s father gave before.” The good old sire was soften’d to consent; But said her wish would prove her punishment; For so much youth and so much beauty join’d, Opposed the state which her desires design’d.