“Begone, and seek the blooming bower, Where some ripe virgin courts thy power, Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed; On Damon’s amorous breast repose; Wanton⁠—on Chloe’s lip of rose, Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.

“Be such thy haunts; these regions cold Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear: Remembering that my fairest years By thee were marked with sighs and tears, I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.

“I have not yet forgot the pains I felt, while bound in Julia’s chains; The ardent flames with which my bosom burned; The nights I passed deprived of rest; The jealous pangs which racked my breast; My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.

“Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more! Fly from my peaceful cottage-door! No day, no hour, no moment shalt thou stay. I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts, Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts; Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!”

“Does age, old man, your wits confound?” Replied the offended God, and frowned; (His frown was sweet as is the Virgin’s smile!) “Do you to me these words address? To me, who do not love you less, Though you my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile!

“If one proud fair you chanced to find, An hundred other nymphs were kind, Whose smiles might well for Julia’s frowns atone: But such is man! His partial hand Unnumbered favours writes on sand, But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.