The mighty Stagg pursues his flying Foe,Till his own pride of Conquest made him slow;Thought it enough to scorn a thing that flyes,And only now persu'd him with his eyes.The Vanquish'd as he fled, turn'd back his sightAsham'd to flye, and yet affraid to fight:Sometimes his wounds, as his excuse survay'd,Then fled again, and then look back and stay'd:Blush't that his wounds so slight should not denyStrength for a fight, that left him strength to flye.Calls thoughts of Love and Empire to his ayd,But fears more powerful then all those perswade,And yet in spight of them retains his shame,His Cool'd ambition, and his half-quench'd flame.There's none from their own sense of shame can flye,And dregs of passions dwell with misery.Now to the Shades he bends his feeble course,Despis'd by those, that once Admir'd his force:The wretch that to a scorn'd condition's thrown,With the Worlds favour, looses too his own.0