Why, Xanthias, blush to own you loveYour slave? Briseis, long ago,A captive, could Achilles moveWith breast of snow.Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord,Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon;Atrides, in his pride, adoredThe maid he won,When Troy to Thessaly gave way,And Hector's all too quick deceaseMade Pergamus an easier preyTo wearied Greece.What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate,You graft yourself on regal stem?Oh yes! be sure her sires were great;She weeps for them.Believe me, from no rascal scumYour charmer sprang; so true a flame,Such hate of greed, could never comeFrom vulgar dame.With honest fervour I commendThose lips, those eyes; you need not fearA rival, hurrying on to endHis fortieth year.