“Thy lover, gentle Caunus, wishes thee That health, which thou alone canst give to me. O charming youth! the gift I ask bestow, Ere thou the name of the fond writer know; To thee without a name I would be known, Since, knowing that, my frailty I must own. Yet why should I my wretched name conceal, When thousand instances my flames reveal? Wan looks and weeping eyes have spoke my pain, And sighs discharged from my heaved heart in vain: Had I not wish’d my passion might be seen, What could such fondness and embraces mean? Yet (though extremest rage has rack’d my soul, And raging fires in my parch’d bosom roll) Be witness gods! how piously I strove To rid my thoughts of this enchanting love. But who could ’scape so fierce and sure a dart, Aim’d at a tender, a defenceless heart? Alas! what maid could suffer I have borne, Ere the dire secret from my breast was torn; To thee, a helpless, vanquish’d wretch I come; ’Tis you alone can save, or give my doom: My life or death this moment you may choose, Yet think, O think, no hated stranger sues,