Spare, Gen'Rous Victor, Spare The Slave, Who Did Unequal War Pursue; That More Than Triumph He Might Have, In Being Overcome By You. In The Dispute Whate'Er I Said, My Heart Was By My Tongue Belied; And In My Looks You Might Have Read How Much I Argued On Your Side. You, Far From Danger As From Fear, Might Have Sustain'D An Open Fight: For Seldom Your Opinions Err: Your Eyes Are Always In The Right. Why, Fair One, Would You Not Rely On Reason'S Force With Beauty'S Join'D? Could I Their Prevalence Deny, I Must At Once Be Deaf And Blind. Alas! Not Hoping To Subdue, I Only To The Fight Aspir'D: To Keep The Beauteous Foe In View Was All The Glory I Desir'D. But She, Howe'Er Of Vict'Ry Sure. Contemns The Wreath Too Long Delay'D; And, Arm'D With More Immediate Pow'R, Calls Cruel Silence To Her Aid. Deeper To Wound, She Shuns The Fight: She Drops Her Arms, To Gain The Field: Secures Her Conquest By Her Flight; And Triumphs, When She Seems To Yield. So When The Parthian Turn'D His Steed, And From The Hostile Camp Withdrew; With Cruel Skill The Backward Reed He Sent; And As He Fled, He Slew.