The time that is to come, is not; Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; 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, 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, 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 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. 1 LOVE and Folly were at play, Straight the criminal was tried, 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, To make him happy, made him wise, SWAIN, thy hopeless passion smother,* 4 Perjur'd Celia loves another; 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; Oenone left, when Paris can survive, CUPID, instruct an amorous swain What need'st thou tell? (the God replied) That love the shepherd cannot hide, The nymph will quickly find; When Phœbus does his beams display, To tell men gravely that 'tis day, Is to suppose them blind. 1 THE ILLUSION. LOVE's a dream of mighty treasure, |