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Not, Celia, that I juster am,

Or truer than the rest ; For I would change each hour like them,

Were it my interest.

But I'm so fix'd alone to thee

By every thought I have,
That should you now my heart set free

'Twould be again your slave.

All that in woman is ador'd

In thy dear self I find;
For the whole sex can but afford

The handsome, and the kind.

Not to my virtue, but thy power

This constancy is due, . When change itself can give no more . 'Tis easy to be true.


It is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last;

It may be we within this hour May lose the joys we now do taste : The blessed that immortal be From change of love are only free.

Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last;

But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure past: Were it not madness to deny To live, because we're sure to die?

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SAY, Myra, why is gentle love

A stranger to that mind, Which pity and esteem can move;

Which can be just and kind ?

Is it because you fear to share ,

The ills that love molest;
The jealous doubt, the tender care,

That rack the am'rous breast ?

Alas! by some degree of woe

We every bliss must gain : The heart can ne'er a transport know,

That never feels a pain.


Cynthia frowns whene'er I woo her,

Yet she's vex'd if I give over ;
Much she fears I should undo her,

But much more to lose her lover :
Thus in doubting she refuses,
And not winning thus she loses.

Prythee, Cynthia, look behind you,

Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you, Then too late desire will find you

When the power does forsake you. Think, oh! think, the sad condition To be past, yet wish fruition.


LOVE's but the frailty of the mind

When ’tis not with ambition join'd; A sickly flame, which if not fed, expires, And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires.

'Tis not to wound a wanton boy,

Or amorous youth, that gives the joy; But 'tis the glory to have pierc'd a swain For whom inferior beauties sigh'd in vain.

Then I alone the conquest prize,

When I insult a rival's eyes; If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see The heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.

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Fair Amoret is gone astray,

Pursue and seek her, every lover ; I'll tell the signs by which you may

The wand'ring shepherdess discover.

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Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both studied, tho' both seem neglected, Careless she is with artful care,

Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart every glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect 'em; For she'd persuade they wound by chance,

Tho' certain aim and art direct 'em.

She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself she prizes ; And, while she laughs at them, forgets

She is the thing that she despises.

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In Chloris all soft charms agree,

Inchanting humour, pow'rful wit,
Beauty from affectation free,

And for eternal empire fit.
Where'er she goes love waits her eyes,

- The women envy, men adore ; Tho' did she less the triumph prize,

She would deserve the conquest more.

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