To a LADY: IN A LETTER. A SONG

Such perfect Bliss, fair Chloris, we In our Enjoyment prove: 'Tis pity restless Jealousie Should mingle with our Love.

Let us, since Wit has taught us how, Raise Pleasure to the top: You rival Bottle must allow, I'll suffer rival Fop.

Think not in this that I design A Treason 'gainst Love's Charms, When following the God of Wine, I leave my Chloris Arms.

Since you have that, for all your Haste, At which I'll ne'er repine, Its Pleasure can repeat as fast, As I the Joys of Wine.

There's not a brisk insipid Spark, That flutters in the Town: But with your wanton Eyes you mark Him out to be your own.

Nor do you think it worth your Care, How empty, and how dull, The Head of your Admirers are, So that their Veins be full.

All this you freely may confess, Yet we ne'er disagree: For did you love your Pleasure less, You were no Match for me.