The god of light, aspiring to her bed, Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed, And is, by his own oracles, misled. And as in empty fields the stubble burns, Or nightly travellers, when day returns, Their useless torches on dry hedges throw, That catch the flames, and kindle all the row; So burns the god, consuming in desire, And feeding in his breast a fruitless fire: Her well-turn’d neck he view’d (her neck was bare), And on her shoulders her dishevell’d hair: “O were it comb’d,” said he, “with what a gace Would every waving curl become her face!” He view’d her eyes, like heavenly lamps that shone. He view’d her lips, too sweet to view alone. Swift as the wind the damsel fled away, Nor did for these alluring speeches stay. “Stay, nymph,” he cried, “I follow, not a foe. Thus from the lion trips the trembling doe; Thus from the wolf the frighten’d lamb removes, And from pursuing falcons fearful doves: Thou shunn’st a god, and shunn’st a god that loves. Ah, lest some thorn should pierce thy tender foot, Or thou shouldst fall in flying my pursuit!