A Song.

1 Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize Reserved for your victorious eyes: From crowds, whom at your feet you see, O pity, and distinguish me! As I from thousand beauties more Distinguish you, and only you adore. 2 Your face for conquest was design'd, Your every motion charms my mind; Angels, when you your silence break, Forget their hymns, to hear you speak; But when at once they hear and view, Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you. 3 No graces can your form improve, But all are lost, unless you love; While that sweet passion you disdain, Your veil and beauty are in vain: In pity then prevent my fate, For after dying all reprieve's too late.