2 I know it, friend, she’s light as air,
    False as the fowler’s artful snare,
    Inconstant as the passing wind,
    As winter’s dreary frost unkind.

  3 She’s such a miser, too, in love,
    Its joys she’ll neither share nor prove,
    Though hundreds of gallants await
    From her victorious eyes their fate.

  4 Blushing at such inglorious reign,
    I sometimes strive to break her chain,
    My reason summon to my aid,
    Resolved no more to be betray’d.

  5 Ah! friend, ’tis but a short-lived trance,
    Dispell’d by one enchanting glance;
    She need but look, and, I confess,
    Those looks completely curse or bless.

  6 So soft, so elegant, so fair,
    Sure something more than human’s there;
    I must submit, for strife is vain,
    ’Twas Destiny that forged the chain.

* * * * *

  SONG.

  1 Let the nymph still avoid and be deaf to the swain,
    Who in transports of passion affects to complain;
    For his rage, not his love, in that frenzy is shown,
    And the blast that blows loudest is soon overblown.

  2 But the shepherd whom Cupid has pierced to the heart,
    Will submissive adore, and rejoice in the smart;
    Or in plaintive, soft murmurs his bosom-felt woe,
    Like the smooth-gliding current of rivers, will flow.

  3 Though silent his tongue, he will plead with his eyes,
    And his heart own your sway in a tribute of sighs: 
    But when he accosts you in meadow or grove,
    His tale is all tenderness, rapture, and love.

* * * * *

  SONG.

  1 From the man whom I love though my heart I disguise,
    I will freely describe the wretch I despise;
    And if he has sense but to balance a straw,
    He will sure take the hint from the picture I draw.

  2 A wit without sense, without fancy a beau,
    Like a parrot he chatters, and struts like a crow;
    A peacock in pride, in grimace a baboon,
    In courage a hind, in conceit a Gascon.

  3 As a vulture rapacious, in falsehood a fox,
    Inconstant as waves, and unfeeling as rocks;
    As a tiger ferocious, perverse as a hog,
    In mischief an ape, and in fawning a dog.

  4 In a word, to sum up all his talents together,
    His heart is of lead, and his brain is of feather;
    Yet, if he has sense but to balance a straw,
    He will sure take the hint from the picture I draw.

* * * * *

  SONG.

  1 Come listen, ye students of every degree;
    I sing of a wit and a tutor perdie,
    A statesman profound, a critic immense,
    In short, a mere jumble of learning and sense;
    And yet of his talents though laudably vain,
    His own family arts he could never attain.