HOW often have I curs’d that sable Deceit,
For making me wish and admire;
And rifle poor Ovid to learn to intreat,
When Reason might check my desire:
For sagely of late it has been disclos’d,
There’s nothing, nothing conceal’d uncommon;
No Miracles under a Mask repos’d,
When knowing Cynthia’s a Woman.

Tho’ Beauty’s great Charms our Sences delude,
’Tis the Centre attracts our Needle;
And Love’s a Jest when thought to intrude,
The design of it to unriddle:
A Virgin may show strange coyness in Love,
And tell you Chimera’s of Honour;
But give her her Wish, the Man she approves,
No Labour he’ll have to win her.


FINIS.