"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, 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, Straight the criminal was tried, Folly should to Love be tied, And condemn'd to lead the blind. AN amorous swain to Juno pray'd, 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,* In his arms I saw her lying, 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, * 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, Oenone left, when Paris can survive, The waves of Xanthus shall reverse their course; CUPID, instruct an amorous swain What need'st thou tell? (the God replied) THE ILLUSION. LOVE's a dream of mighty treasure, When we think, by passion heated, 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 [CONGREVE.] TELL me no more I am deceiv'd, As such I lik'd, as such caress'd, She still was constant when possess'd, P |