Oh! that those hours could take their turn again,
When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain,
His Flora thus bespoke: "Say, my dear love!
"Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove?
"In vain, for ever, shall the Roman youth
"Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth?
"Shall neither tears nor pray'rs thy pity move?
"Ah! give not pity, 'tis akin to love.
"Would Flora were not fair in such excess,
"That I might fear, tho' not adore her less. "