In which of all thy various joys

In which of all thy various joys,
The tongue of fame that so employs,
Didst thou best taste—say, mighty Jove,
The pure, unmixed delights of love?
Not with Europa:—there recourse
Thou boldly had'st to brutal force;
Her wishes took with thee no part,
She gave her person, not her heart.

Not with the beauteous Theban dame,
When thou assumedest her husband's name;
For, though ingenious was the whim,
She knew not thee, but thought of him.
Not then when in a glitt'ring shower
Thou visit'st Danae in the tower;
The gold prevailed 'tis true, and she
Yielded to interest, not to thee.

Nor Semele, whom to obey
Thou cam'st in terrible array,
She, proud one, yielded not to love,
But to ambition, and to Jove:
No, 'twas Mnenosyne, sweet fair,
Thy joys indeed were perfect there;
Joys hadst thou not, no bard had sung,
For thence the immortal sisters sprung.