 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
178
The PLATONIC SPELL.
Whene'er I wed, young Strephon cry'd,
Ye Pow'rs that o'er the Noose preside,
Wit, Beauty, Wealth, good Humour give;
Or let me still a Rover live:
But if all these no Nymph can share,
Let mine, ye Pow'rs! be doubly Fair.
Ye Pow'rs that o'er the Noose preside,
Wit, Beauty, Wealth, good Humour give;
Or let me still a Rover live:
But if all these no Nymph can share,
Let mine, ye Pow'rs! be doubly Fair.
Thus pray'd the Swain, in Heat of Blood;
Whilst nigh celestial Cupid stood;
And tapping him, said, Youth be wise;
And let a Child, for once, advise.
A faultless Make, a manag'd Wit,
Humour and Riches rarely meet.
But if a Beauty you'd obtain,
Court some bright Phillis of the Brain:
The dear Idea long enjoy,
Clean is the Bliss, and ne'er will cloy.
Whilst nigh celestial Cupid stood;
And tapping him, said, Youth be wise;
And let a Child, for once, advise.
A faultless Make, a manag'd Wit,
Humour and Riches rarely meet.
But if a Beauty you'd obtain,
Court some bright Phillis of the Brain:
179
Clean is the Bliss, and ne'er will cloy.
But trust me, Youth, for I'm sincere,
And know the Ladies to a Hair:
Howe'er small Poets whine upon it,
In Madrigal, and Song, and Sonnet;
Their Beauty's but a Spell, to bring
A Lover to th' enchanted Ring.
E'er the Sack-Posset is digested,
Or half of Hymen's Taper wasted;
The winning Air, the wanton Trip,
The radiant Eye, the velvet Lip,
From which you flagrant Kisses stole,
And seem'd to suck her springing Soul:
These, and the rest you doated on,
Are nauseous, or insipid grown;
The Spell dissolves, the Cloud is gone,
And Sacharissa turns to Joan.
And know the Ladies to a Hair:
Howe'er small Poets whine upon it,
In Madrigal, and Song, and Sonnet;
Their Beauty's but a Spell, to bring
A Lover to th' enchanted Ring.
E'er the Sack-Posset is digested,
Or half of Hymen's Taper wasted;
The winning Air, the wanton Trip,
The radiant Eye, the velvet Lip,
From which you flagrant Kisses stole,
And seem'd to suck her springing Soul:
These, and the rest you doated on,
Are nauseous, or insipid grown;
The Spell dissolves, the Cloud is gone,
And Sacharissa turns to Joan.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |