WHilst I fondly view the charmer,
Thus the God of love I sue,
Gentle Cupid, pray disarm her,
Cupid, if you love me, do:
Of a thousand sweets bereave her,
Rob her neck, her lips and eyes,
The remainder still will leave her
Power enough to tyranize.
Shape and feature, flame and passion,
Still in every breast will move,
More is supererrogation,
Meer idolatry of love:
You may dress a world of Chloes
In the beautys she can spare;
Hear him, Cupid, who no foe is
To your altars, or the fair.
Foolish mortal, pray be easy,
Angry Cupid made reply,
Do Florella’s charms displease you,
Die then, foolish mortal, die:
Fancy not that I’ll deprive her
Of the captivating store;
Shepherd, no, I’ll rather give her
Twenty thousand beautys more.
Were Florella proud and sour,
Apt to mock a lover’s care;
Justly then you’d pray that power
Shou’d be taken from the fair:
But tho’ I spread a blemish o’er her,
No relief in that you’ll find;
Still, fond shepherd, you’ll adore her,
For the beautys of her mind.