A false designe to be cruell

In vain fair Chloris, you designe,

To be cruel, to be kind;

For we know with all your arts,

You never hold but willing hearts;

Men are too wise grown to expire

With broken shafts, and painted fire.

And if among a thousand Swains,

Some one of Love, or Fate complains;

And all the stars in heav'n defie,

With Clora's lip, or Celia's eye:

'Tis not their love the Youth would chuse,

But the glory to refuse.

Then wisely make a prize of those

Want wit, or courage to oppose;

But tempt me not that can discover

What will redeems the fondest lover,

And flie the list, let it appear

Your pow'r is measur'd by our fear.

So the rude wave securely shocks,

The yielding Bark, but stiff the rocks

If it attempt, how soon again

Broke and dissolv'd it fills the Main:

It foams and roars, but we deride

Alike its weakness, and its pride.