The time that is to come, is not; How then can it be mine? 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. [WHITEHEAD.] YES, I'm in love, I feel it now, But The pleasing plague stole on me. "Tis not her face that love creates, For there no graces revel; "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, YE little Loves that round her wait To bring me tidings of my fate, 1 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, Give me, oh! give me the dear maid, 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, Panting, kissing, trembling, dying; 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 To talk of sighs, and flames, and darts, What need'st thou tell? (the God replied) LOVE's a dream of mighty treasure, Which in fancy we possess ; In the folly lies the pleasure, Wisdom always makes it less. |