A Pindaric to Mr. P. Who Sings Finely

Damon, altho you waste in vain
That pretious breath of thine,
Where lies a Pow’r in every strain,
To take in any other heart, but mine;
Yet do not cease to sing, that I may know,
By what soft Charms and Arts,
What more than Humane ‘tis you do,
To take, and keep your hearts;
Or have you Vow’d never to wast your breath,
But when some Maid must fall a Sacrifice,
As Indian Priests prepare a death,
For Slaves t’addorn their Victories,
Your Charm’s as powerful, if I live,
For I as sensible shall be,
What wound you can, to all that hear you, give,
As if you wounded me;
And shall as much adore your wondrous skill,
As if my heart each dying Note cou’d kill.

And yet I should not tempt my Fate,
Nor trust my feeble strength,
Which does with ev’ry softning Note abate
And may at length
Reduce me to the wretched Slave I hate;
Tis strange extremity in me,
To venture on a doubtful Victory,
Where if you fail, I gain no more,
Than what I had before;
But ‘twill certain comfort bring,
If I unconquer’d do escape from you;
If I can live, and hear you sing,
No other Forces can my Soul subdue;
Sing, Damon, then, and let each Shade,
Which with thy Heavenly voice is happy made,
Bear witness if my courage be not great,
To hear thee sing, and make a safe retreat.