[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]
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.
