Why dost thou fly me thus? Oh cruel boy!
I am no wolf that would thy life destroy:
But a fond Nymph, admirer of thy face,
As Echo once of fair Narcissus was.
Thou e'en in dangers dost thy fancy please,
Striving with toil the hunted game to seize:
While wretched me, who languish for thy sake,
When in thy net thou dost refuse to take.
But I, alas, in vain attempt to find
Effects of pity in a hard'ned mind:
As soon the hare its hunters may pursue,
As I with prayers thy cruel heart subdue.
My pow'r, I see, cannot thy steps retain,
Thus led by sports, and wing'd by thy disdain.