To a Young Lady, on Her Translation of the Story of Phoebus and Daphne, From Ovid
In PhÅbus Wit (as Ovid said)
Enchanting Beauty woo’d;
In Daphne Beauty coily fled,
While vainly Wit pursu’d.
But when you trace what Ovid writ,
A diff’rent Turn we view;
Beauty no longer flies from Wit,
Since both are joyn’d in You.
Your Lines the wondrous Change impart,
From whence our Lawrels spring;
In Numbers fram’d to please the Heart,
And merit what they Sing.
Methinks thy Poet’s gentle Shade
Its Wreath presents to Thee;
What Daphne owes you as a Maid,
She pays you as a Tree.
