Delia
to
Phraartes
on
his
Playing
Cæsar
Borgia
.
If
Cæsar
from
his
Stygian
Coast
could
come
,
To
see
you
Play
,
he'd
bless
his
former
Doom
;
Pleas'd
with
the
promis'd
Glories
which
he
lost
,
And
in
your
Form
,
confess
the
greater
Boast
.
Had
he
been
bless'd
but
with
your
soft
Address
,
His
Love
had
never
known
such
ill
Success
;
That
Godlike
Mein
and
that
seraphick
Voice
,
Would
have
compell'd
nice
Bellamira's
choice
.
Had
half
your
Charms
in
the
true
Borgia
been
,
We
ne'er
his
mourning
Tragedy
had
seen
.
You'r
so
Divine
,
that
Heavens
peculiar
care
,
Would
so
much
Gallantry
and
Sweetness
spare
.
In
vain
Historians
and
Poets
too
,
To
such
brave
Men
celestial
Honous
do
,
They
ne'er
seem
Gods
,
till
personated
by
you
.
A
rugged
Virtue
and
the
chance
of
War
,
Did
bless
their
Hero's
with
that
Character
;
The
Antiquated
Shade
the
Poets
seize
,
And
tune
the
Soul
to
what
a
pitch
they
please
:
With
artful
Notes
they
grace
each
noble
Line
,
But
your
soft
touch
gives
it
an
air
Divine
.
What
pains
they
take
for
Praise
while
you
with
ease
,
Transport
with
that
which
they
scarce
hop'd
could
please
?
Th'
Imperial
Cæsars
when
with
Fortune
bless'd
,
In
all
their
gay
triumphant
splendor
drest
,
And
more
than
Royal
State
thro'
Rome
they
rode
,
(
Both
prais'd
and
fear'd
and
thought
almost
a
God
,
When
fetter'd
Kings
did
grace
the
Victory
,
)
Mid'st
all
their
dazling
Pomp
look'd
less
than
thee
.
If
Gods
their
Glories
would
expose
to
view
,
To
joy
Mankind
they'd
look
and
speak
like
you
.