To a Young Widow

Let bashful virgins, nicely coy,
Exalted rapture lose,
And timid at untasted joy,
Through fearfulness refuse.

Will you—the pleasing conflict try'd,
Tho' sure to conquer—fly?
In you—the sacred zone unty'd!
'Tis peevish to deny.

But if, my fair, the widow's name
Hold gracious with you still,
The god of Love has form'd a scheme
Obsequious to your will.

Take, take me to thy twining arms,
(Opprest with warm desire;)
Where, conquer'd by such mighty charms,
A monarch might expire.

Thou'lt be a widow every night,
(Thy wond'rous pow'r confest!)
And as I die in dear delight,
My tomb shall be thy breast.