III
Believe not, Chloe, all your grace
Can dwell within that lovely face,
Believe not all your beauty lies
In the mild prison of those eyes.
Yet, Chloe, think not I incline
To passions abstract and divine,
'Tis not a soul alone could move
This ardent flesh to sue for love.
But when that rose-tipped breast I see
Or the white splendour of your knee,
I covet a more precious fleece
Than ever Jason brought to Greece.
IV
When to Dorinda I impart
My passion,
She vows the mistress of my heart
Is Fashion,
That Celia, Chloe, and Lucinda
Shall never rule with proud Dorinda.
I crave more beauties than do stir
My vision,
For all reply she shows me her
Derision.
Shall I then suffer this, a martyr
That dares not rise above her garter?
If she persists a prude, I swear
I'll leave her
Till some dull clumsy cuckold dare
Relieve her;
As heavy guns take virgin trenches
So husbands smooth our way to wenches.
