Spare, gen’rous victor, spare the slave,
Who did unequal war pursue;
That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.
In the dispute whate’er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read,
How much I argued on your side.
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight:
For seldom your opinions err;
Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On reason’s force with beauty’s joined?
Could I their prevalence deny;
I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,
I only to the fight aspired:
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desired.
But she, howe’er of vict’ry sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delayed;
And, armed with more immediate
Pow’r, Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight:
She drops her arms, to gain the field:
Secures her conquest by her flight;
And triumphs, when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turned his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew;
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent; and as he fled, he slew.
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