Hence to rude Cerigo we came,
Known once by Cytherea's name;
When Ocean first the goddess bore,
She rose on this distinguish'd shore.
Here first the happy Paris stopp'd,
When Helen from her lord elop'd.
With pleas'd reflection I survey'd
Each secret grott, each conscious shade;
Envy'd his choice, approv'd his flame,
And fondly wish'd my lot the same.
O were the cause reviv'd again!
For charming Queensbury liv'd not then,
The radiant fruit, had she been there,
Would scarce have fallen to Venus' share;
Saturnia's self had wav'd her claim,
And modest Pallas blush'd for shame;
All had been right: the Phrygian swain
Had sigh'd for her, but sigh'd in vain;
The fair Oenone joy'd to find,
The pains she felt repaid in kind;
No rape reveng'd, no room for strife,
Atrides might have kept his wife,
Old Troy in peace and plenty smil'd —
But the best poem had been spoil'd.