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,
Though sure to conquer — fly?
If 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 ev'ry night,
(Thy wond'rous pow'r confest!)
And, as I die in dear delight,
My tomb shall be thy breast.