Thou whom the Gods design'd
In public to do credit to mankind?
Why sleeps the noble ardour of thy blood,
Which from thy ancestors so many ages past,
From Rollo down to Bevil flowed,
And then appeared again at last,
In thee when thy victorious lance
Bore the disputed prize from all the youth of France.

II.

In the first trials which are made for fame,
Those to whom fate success denies,
If taking council from their shame,
They modestly retreat are wise;
But why should you, who still succeed,
Whether with graceful art you lead
The fiery barb, or with a graceful motion tread
In shining balls where all agree
To give the highest praise to thee?
Such harmony in every motion's sound,
As art could ne'er express by any sound.

III.

So lov'd and prais'd whom all admire,
Why, why should you from courts and camps retire?
If Myra is unkind, if it can be
That any nymph can be unkind to thee;
If pensive made by love, you thus retire,