I. To
Cloe
Cloe
, blooming, sweet as May,
We must tempt Mamma away;
Still the jealous Dame destroys
All our Schemes of future Joys:
All the Projects we have try'd,
Vainly yet have been apply'd;
At my Bait she now must bite,
If I guess her Temper right:
She shall have her Lover too;
Trust me, Cloë, this will do.
II. To
Cloe,
with an Ovid's Art of Love
Cloe
, as sweet as vernal Flow'rs,
Lov'd Partner of my softer Hours,
As Venus fair, as Turtles kind,
Airy, and wanton as the Wind;
That you may still more charming prove,
Behold soft Ovid's Art of Love!
But who, that to the Combat goes,
Against himself e'er arm'd his Foes?
If you are true, as you profess,
This ne'er can make you; love me less;
If, false, you wou'd in Art excell,
'T will teach you to deceive me well.
III. To
Cloe.
My
Cloë, still be only mine!
My faithful Heart shall still be thine!
As Vines around the Elm entwine,
So will we meet, so closely join,
And Envy at our Joys shall pine.
In Gold, and Gems my Love shall shine,
On the most costly Dishes dine,
And drink the richest, purest Wine.
Thus on each Pleasure we'll refine,
Our Lives one smooth, one even Line;
And when those Lives we must resign,
One Tomb shall both our Hearts inshrine,
One Verse record our Loves divine.
IV. To
Cloe
Pleasing the Harbour Sailors find,
Long toss'd, and blown by Waves, and Wind;
In Praise wise Authors take Delight;
Tyr'd Pilgrims in Repose at Night;
Laura in a well fancy'd Gown;
The Victor in his Laurel Crown;
Drunkards in Liquor stout, and old;
And Misers in their Hoards of Gold;
Keen Sportsmen in the Woods, and Plains;
In fleecy Flocks the rural Swains;
But we, my charming Cloë, prove
No Joy so sweet as that of Love!
