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Believe not, Chloe, all your grace Can dwell within that lovely face, Believe not all your beauty lies In the mild prison of those eyes.

Yet, Chloe, think not I incline To passions abstract and divine, 'Tis not a soul alone could move This ardent flesh to sue for love.

But when that rose-tipped breast I see Or the white splendour of your knee, I covet a more precious fleece Than ever Jason brought to Greece.

When to Dorinda I impart
 * My passion,

She vows the mistress of my heart
 * Is Fashion,

That Celia, Chloe, and Lucinda Shall never rule with proud Dorinda.

I crave more beauties than do stir
 * My vision,

For all reply she shows me her
 * Derision.

Shall I then suffer this, a martyr That dares not rise above her garter?

If she persists a prude, I swear
 * I'll leave her

Till some dull clumsy cuckold dare
 * Relieve her;

As heavy guns take virgin trenches So husbands smooth our way to wenches.