FROM THE Greek of MEN AGE

When thro' the Streets the Paphian Goddess run, And cry'd the Fugitive her darling Son; A Kiss was the Reward to be bestow'd, More sweet than Nector, or Ambrosial Food. Your Son, the Fugitive you seek is here, Within my Breast is hid the Wanderer: Give me kind Goddess, give the charming kiss, Or bid fair Celia, and improve the Bliss.