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.