Pity Kindled Into Love

In spite of what my tongue can say, Celia's deaf to all persuasion; Cold seems her heart as earthly clay, When love's my theme, she's all evasion; Why did the gods impress my mind, Or raise such ardour in my breast; And yet the fair be so unkind, To triumph o'er a heart distress'd.

Say, why thou cherub-dimpl'd boy, Hast thou fetter'd my affection, Or why, with frowns my peace destroy, And leave me wilder'd by distraction? Ah! wou'd you Celia, were I laid, Quite breathless in the silent grave, Wou'd you not then, dear cruel maid, In pity once your bosom heave?

Fair Celia listen'd to his strain, With a heart-felt strange obtrusion, When Pity rais'd a gentle flame, Which kindl'd into soft delusion; Love fann'd the blaze with magic breath, And made her own the genial heat, No more, no more dear youth of death, Or vainly kneel at Celia's feet.

The nymph these words so sweetly said, Strephon was with joy confounded, Quickly he rear'd his drooping head, And like the hart elate he bounded; He seiz'd her hand, and bless'd her tongue. And smil'd with joy at her decree, Said, through the plains let it be sung, That Celia owns her love for me.