Sure I should know if love had fix'd his dart;Or creeps he softly in with treacherous art,And then grows tyrant, there and wounds the heart?'Tis so, the shaft sticks deep, and galls my breast;'Tis tyrant love, that robs my thoughts of rest!Well, shall I tamely yield, or must I fight?I'll yield; 'tis patience makes a burden light:A shaken torch grows fierce, and sparks arise;But, if unmov'd, the fire looks pale and dies.The hard-mouth'd horse smarts for his fierce disdainThe gentle's ridden with a looser rein.Love smooths the gentle, but the fierce reclaims;He fires their breasts, and fills their souls with flames.I yield; great Love, my former crimes forgive,Forget my rebel thoughts, and let me live;No need of force: I willingly obey,And now unarm'd, shall prove no glorious prey.Go take thy mother's doves, thy myrtle crown,And for thy chariot, Mars shall lend his own;There thou shalt sit in thy triumphant pride,