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"Tis not her air, for sure in that
There's nothing more than common; And all her sense is only chat
Like any other woman.
Her voice, her touch might give th' alarm,
'Twas both, perhaps, or neither ; In short, 'twas that provoking charm
Of Celia altogether.
Ye little Loves that round her wait
To bring me tidings of my fate,
Ah! gently whisper-Strephon dies.
If this will not her pity move,
And the proud fair disdains to love, Smile and say 'tis all a lie,
And haughty Strephon scorns to die.
Love and Folly were at play,
Both too wanton to be wise, They fell out, and in the fray
Folly put out Cupid's eyes.
Straight the criminal was tried,
And had this punishment assign’d, Folly should to Love be tied,
And condemn’d to lead the blind.
An amorous swain to Juno pray'd,
And thus his suit did move; Give me, oh! give me the dear maid,
Or take away my love.
The Goddess thunder'd from the skies,
And granted his request; To make him happy, made him wise,
And drove her from his breast.
Swain, thy hopeless passion smother, *
Oh! said you, when she deceives me,
* The turn in this song is ingeniously copied out of Ovid's epistle from Oenone to Paris :
Cum Paris Oenone poterit spirare relicta,
Ad fontem Xanthi versa recurret aqua ;
Sustinet Oenone deseruisse Paris.
Oenone left, when Paris can survive, -
Turn waters, turn, flow upward to your source, · Oenone's left, yet Paris bears to live.
Cupid, instruct an amorous swain
To common youths unknown;
Are methods vulgar grown.
What need'st thou tell ? (the God replied) That love the shepherd cannot hide,
The nymph will quickly find; When Phæbus does his beams display, To tell men gravely that 'tis day,
Is to suppose them blind.
LovE's a dream of mighty treasure,
Which in fancy we possess ; In the folly lies the pleasure,
Wisdom always makes it less.
When we think, by passion heated,
We a Goddess have in chace, Like Ixion we are cheated,
And a gaudy cloud embrace.
Happy only is the lover
Whom his mistress well deceives; Seeking nothing to discover,
He contented lives at ease.
While the wretch who would be knowing
What the fair one would disguise, Labours for his own undoing,
Changing happy to be wise.
Tell me no more I am deceiv’d,
That Chloe's false and common;
She was a very woman :
She could do more for no man.