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
'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;
'Tis not her sense, for that's but 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 altogether.