The plague of love

Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now,

And Celia has undone me;

And yet I'll swear, I can't tell how,

The pleasing plague stole on me.

'Tis not her face that love creates,

For there no graces revel;

'Tis not her shape,

For there the Fates have rather been uncivil.

'Tis not her air, for sure in that

There's nothing more than common;

And all her sense is only chat,

Like any other woman.

Her voice, her touch, might give th' alarm;

'Tis both, perhaps, or neither;

In short, 'tis that provoking charm

Of Celia all together!