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Her voice, her touch might give th' alarm, 'Twas both, perhaps, or neither;

In fhort, 'twas that provoking charm
Of CELIA altogether.

WHITEHEAD.

Y

E 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 difdains to love, Smile and fay 'tis all a lie,

And haughty STREPHON fcorns to die.

L

OVE and Folly were at play, Both too wanton to be wife, They fell out, and in the fray Folly put out Cupid's eyes.

Straight the criminal was try'd,
And had this punishment affign'd,

Folly fhould to Love be ty'd,

And condemn'd to lead the blind.

A

N amorous fwain to Juno pray'd, And thus his fuit did move ; Give me, oh! give me the dear maid, Or take away my love.

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The Goddess thunder'd from the skies,
And granted his requeft;

To make him happy, made him wise,
And drove her from his breast.

S

WAIN, thy hopeless paffion fmother,*

Perjur'd CELIA loves another;

In his arms I faw her lying,

Panting, kiffing, trembling, dying;

There the fair deceiver fwore,

All fhe did to you before,

Oh!

* THE turn in this song is ingeniously copied out of Ovid's epiftle from Cenone to Paris.

Cum Paris Ocnone poterit fpirare reli&ta,

Ad fontem Xanthi verfa recurret aqua;

Xanthe retro propera, verfæque recurrite lymphæ,
Suftinet Oenone deferuiffe Paris.

Oenone left, when Paris can furvive,

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

Oh! faid you, when she deceives me,
When that conftant creature leaves me,
Ifis' waters back shall fly,

And leave their oozy channels dry;
Turn, ye waters, leave your fhore,
Perjur'd CELIA loves no more.

CUPID, inftruct an amorous fwain

Some way to tell the nymph his pain To common youths unknown; To talk of fighs, and flames, and darts, Of bleeding wounds, and burning hearts, Are methods vulgar grown.

What need'ft thou tell? (the God reply'd) That love the fhepherd cannot hide,

The nymph will quickly find;

When Phoebus does his beams difplay,
To tell men gravely that 'tis day,
Is to fuppofe them blind,

OVE's a dream of mighty treasure,
Which in fancy we possess ;

In the folly lies the pleasure,
Wisdom always makes it lefs.

When we think by paffion heated
We a Goddefs 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 eafe.

While the wretch who would be knowing

What the fair one would difguife,

Labours for his own undoing,

Changing happy to be wife.

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