Binds me for ever Cytherea's slave.
The fatal apple I to Venus gave,
She her son's darts will distribute around,
And give him orders when and where to wound;
Yet is herself oft wounded by his dart:
The wanton boy spares not his mother's heart.
Mars to her bed so often did resort,
All heav'n at last was witness to their sport.
Then to attract Anchises to her arms,
Appears a mortal with celestial charms.
What wonder love should have transported me,
When his own mother Venus is not free!
Wrong'd Menelaus, tho' hated, loves: Can I,
On whom she dotes, from the fair princess fly?
I see the gath'ring clouds from Sparta rise,
And threat'ning tempests thicken in the skies.
The angry Greeks with armies menace us,
And hostile flects rig out for Pergamus.
Let 'em come on, and fight us if they dare:
To keep this beauty, we accept their war.
Her face, none's so divine a thing,
'Tis worth the cares and dangers of a king.
The Grecian princes, hastening all to arms,
Enough evince, (if you still doubt her charms :)
But her, for whom thy fleets and armies send,
With greater force the Trojans will defend.
If any hope, Enone, you retain,
Of ever freeing me from Helen's chain,