To the Tune of, The fourteen of October.
YE Gods! was Strephon’s picture blest
With the fair heaven of Chloe’s breast?
Move softer, thou fond flutring heart,
Oh gently thorb, – too fierce thou art.
Tell me thou brightest of thy kind,
For Strephon was the bliss design’d;
For Strephon’s sake, dear charming maid,
Didst thou prefer his wand’ring shade?
And thou blest shade that sweetly art
Lodg’d so near my Chloe’s heart,
For me the tender hour improve,
And softly tell how dear I love.
Ungrateful thing! it scorns to hear
Its wretched master’s ardent pray’r,
Ingrossing all that beauteous heaven,
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given.
I cannot blame thee: were I lord
Of all the wealth those breasts afford,
I’d be a miser too, nor give
An alms to keep a God alive.
Oh smile not thus, my lovely fair,
On these cold looks that lifeless air,
Prize him whose bosom glows with fire,
With eager love and soft desire.
‘Tis true thy charms; O powerful maid;
To life can bring the silent shade:
Thou can’st surpass the painter’s art,
And real warmth and flames impart.
But oh! it ne’er can love like me,
I’ve ever lov’d and lov’d but thee:
Then, charmer, grant my fond request,
Say thou canst love, and make me blest.