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I fly, ye Nymphs, I fly! tho' Fear affail
The Woman, yet the Lover must prevail.
In Death whai Terrors can deserve my Care?
The Pangs of Death are gentler than Despair.
Ye Winds, and Cupid Thou, to meet my

Your downy Pinions spread! my Weight is small.
Thus rescu'd, to the God of Verse I'll bow,
Hang up my Lute, and thus infcribe
To Phoebus grateful Sappho gave this Lute;
The Gift did both the God and Giver fuit.

my Vow.

But; Phaon, why shou'd I this Toil indure, When thy Return wou'd soon compleat the Cure? Thy Beauty and its balmy Pow'r wou'd be A Phæbus and Leucadian Rock to me. O harder than the Rock to which I

go, And deafer than the Waves that war below!

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Think yet, oh think! shall future Ages tell
That I to Phaon's Scorn a Victim fell?
Or hadst thou rather see this tender Breast
Bruis’d on the Cliff, than close to Phaon's prest?
This Breast! which fill'd with bright Poetick Fire,
You made me once believe did admire:
O cou'd it now supply me with Address
To plead my Cause, and court thee with Success!
But mighty Woes my Genius quite controul,
And damp the rising Vigour of my Soul:
No more, ye Lesbian Nymphs, desire a Song,
Mute is my Voice, my Lute is all unstrung.
My-Phaon's fled, who made my Fancy shine,
(Ah! yet I scarce forbear to call him-mine.)
Phaon is fled! but bring the Youth again,
Inspiring Ardors will revive my Vein.
But why, alas! this unavailing Pray’r?
Vain are my Vows, and fleet with common Air:


•MyVows the Winds disperse and make their sport, But will not waft him to the Lesbian Port.

Yet if you purpose to return, 'tis wrong
To let your Mistress languish here so long.
Venus for your fair Voyage will compose
The Sea, for from the Sea the Goddess rose:
Cupid, assisted with Propitious Gales,
Will hand the Rudder, and direct the Sails.
But if from Sappho you persist to fly,
She thinks you scarce can give a Reason why.

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Printed for Bernard Lintott. 1712.

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