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The time that is to come, is not;
How then can it be mine?
Phyllis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,
If I, by miracle, can be
This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that heaven allows.
THE JE NE SCAIS QUOI.
Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, And Celia has undone me;But yet I swear I can't tell how The pleasing plague stole on me.
'Tis not her face that love creates,
'Tis not her shape, for there the fates
f is not her air, for sure in that There's nothing more than common 5
And all her sense is only chat
Her voice, her touch might give th' alarm,
In short, 'twas that provoking charm
Y E little Loves that round her wait
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
Straight the criminal was tried,
Folly should to Love be tied,
And condemn'd to lead the blind.
A , \
An amorous swain to Juno pra/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,
Xanthe retro propera, versaeque recurrite lymphae,
Oenone left, when Paris can survive,
Vjijpid, 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.
.love's a dream of mighty treasure,
In the folly lies the pleasure,