"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,
As Celia on her pillow lies,

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,*
Perjur'd Celia loves another;

In his arms I saw her lying,
Panting, kissing, trembling, dying;
There the fair deceiver swore,

All she did to you before.

Oh! said you, when she deceives me,

When that constant creature leaves me,

Isis' waters back shall fly,

And leave their oozy channels dry;

Turn, ye waters, leave your shore,
Perjur' Celia loves no more.

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;

Xanthe retro propera, versæque recurrite lymphæ,
Sustinet Oenone deseruisse Paris.

Oenone left, when Paris can survive,

The waves of Xanthus shall reverse their course;
Turn waters, turn, flow upward to your source,
Oenone's left, yet Paris bears to live.

CUPID, instruct an amorous swain
Some way to tell the nymph his pain
To common youths unknown;

To talk of sighs, and flames, and darts,
Of bleeding wounds, and burning hearts,
Are methods vulgar grown.

What need'st thou tell? (the God replied)
That love the shepherd cannot hide,
The nymph will quickly find;
When Phoebus does his beams display,
To tell men gravely that 'tis day,
Is to suppose them blind.

THE ILLUSION.

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.

[CONGREVE.]

TELL
ELL me no more I am deceiv'd,
That Chloe's false and common;
I always knew (at least believ'd)
She was a very woman :

As such I lik'd, as such caress'd,

She still was constant when possess'd,
She could do more for no man.

P