Air—in the Shepherd's Artifice

The trifling maid, who, idly vain, Contemns a faithful lover's pain, His torment all her joy; Who, changeful as an April day, With captive hearts delight to play, As infants with a toy: Deserves of Cupid's bitter draught, To taste a drop, and from his shaft A stroke or two to feel; Then tremble, Nymph, for, taught by me, Strephon shall soon give wounds to thee, No vanity can heal.