Written in Lady Howe's Ovid's Epistles

HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair,
However great the dying lover's care,
Ovid, kind author, found him some relief,
Rang'd his unruly sighs, and set his grief;
Taught him what accents had the power to move,
And always gain'd him pity, sometimes love.
But, oh ! what pangs torment the destin'd heart,
That feels the wound, yet dares not shew the dart !
What care could Ovid to his sorrows give,
Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live !