On a Fan of the Author's Design
Come
gentle
Air!
th'
AEolian
shepherd
said,
While
Procris
panted
in
the
secret
shade:
Come,
gentle
Air,
the
fairer
Delia
cries,
While
at
her
feet
her
swain
expiring
lies.
Lo
the
glad
gales
o'er
all
her
beauties
stray,
Breathe
on
her
lips,
and
in
her
bosom
play!
In
Delia's
hand
this
toy
is
fatal
found,
Nor
could
that
fabled
dart
more
surely
wound:
Both
gifts
destructive
to
the
givers
prove;
Alike
both
lovers
fall
by
those
they
love.
Yet
guiltless
too
this
bright
destroyer
lives,
At
random
wounds,
nor
knows
the
wound
she
gives:
She
views
the
story
with
attentive
eyes,
And
pities
Procris,
while
her
lover
dies.
