A SONG. (Unjustly, Cloe, you suggest)

Unjustly, Cloe, you suggest, That I, inconstant, have possest, Or lov'd a fairer she: Would you at once with ease be cur'd Of all the ills you've long endur'd, Consult your glass and see.

And if you think that I can find A nymph more fair, or one more kind, You've reason for your fears: But if, impartial you will prove To your own beauty, and my love, How needless are your tears.

If in my way I should by chance Give or receive an amorous glance, I like but while I view: How slight's the glance, how faint the kiss, To that much more substantial bliss Which I receive from you?

With wanton flight the curious bee Thro' beds of violets ranges free, And where each floweret blows, Extracts the juice of all he meets, But, for his quintessence of sweets, He settles on the rose.

So I, my passion to employ, In each variety of joy, From nymph to nymph may roam, Perhaps see fifty in a day, Those are but visits which I pay, But Cloe is my home.