But lo, to SAPPHO'S mournful airs
Descends the radiant Queen of love;
She smiles, and asks what fonder cares
Her suppliant's plaintive measures move.
Why is my faithful maid distrest?
Who, SAPPHO, wounds thy tender breast?
Say, flies he? — Soon he shall pursue:
Shuns he thy gifts? — HE too shall give:
Slights he thy sorrows? — HE shall grieve,
And bend him to thy haughtiest vow.