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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,
False hearts, and broken vows;
'Tis all that heaven allows.
Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Celia has undone me;
yet I swear I can't tell how The pleasing plague stole on me.
'Tis not her face that love creates, For there no graces
; 'Tis not her shape, for there the fates
Have rather been uncivil.
"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,
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;
Or take away my love.
The Goddess thunder'd from the skies,
And granted his request;
And drové 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,
Cupid, instruct an amorous swain
To common youths unknown;
Are methods vulgar grown.
What need’st thou tell ? (the God replied)
The nymph will quickly find ;
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.