An Ode To A Lady. She Refusing To Continue A Dispute With Me, And Leaving Me In The Argument

Spare, generous victor, spare the slave, Who did unequal war pursue; That more than triumph he might have, In being overcome by you. In the dispute, whate'er I said, My heart was by my tongue belied; And in my looks you might have read How much I argued on your side. You, far from danger as from fear, Might have sustain'd an open fight; For seldom your opinions err, Your eyes are always in the right. Why, fair one, would you not rely On reason's force with beauty's join'd? Could I their prevalence deny, I must at once be deaf and blind. Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspired: To keep the beauteous foe in view Was all the glory I desired. But she, howe'er of victory sure, Contemns the wreath too long delay'd: And arm'd with more immediate power, Calls cruel silence to her aid. Deeper to wound she shuns the fight; She drops her arms, to gain the field; Secures her conquest by her flight; And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turn'd his steed, And from the hostile camp withdrew, With cruel skill the backward reed He sent; and, as he fled, he slew.