The Works of Henry Fielding/To Celia

CUPID CALLED TO ACCOUNT.

LAST night, as my unwilling mind To rest, dear Celia, I resign'd; For how should I repose enjoy, While any fears your breast annoy? Forbid it, heav'n, that I should be From any of your troubles free. O! would kind Fate attend my pray'r, Greedy, I'd give you not a share.

Last night, then, in a wretched taking, My spirits toss'd 'twixt sleep and waking, I dreamt (ah! what so frequent themes As you and Venus of my dreams!) That she, bright glory of the sky, Heard from below her darling's cry: Saw her cheeks pale, her bosom heave, And heard a distant sound of 'thieve!' Not so you look when at the ball, Envied you shine, outshining all. Not so at church, when priest perplex'd, Beholds you, and forgets the text.

The goddess frighten'd, to her throne Summon'd the little god her son, And him in passion thus bespoke; 'Where, with that cunning urchin's look, 'Where from thy colours hast thou stray'd? 'Unguarded left my darling maid? 'Left my lov'd citadel of beauty, 'With none but Sancho upon duty! 'Did I for this a num'rous band 'Of loves send under thy command! 'Bid thee still have her in thy sight, 'And guard her beauties day and night! 'Were not th' Hesperian gardens taken? 'The hundred eyes of Argus shaken? 'What dangers will not men despise, 'T' obtain this much superior prize? 'And didst thou trust what Jove hath charm'd, 'To a poor sentinel unarmed? 'A gun indeed the wretch had got, 'But neither powder, ball, nor shot. 'Come tell me, urchin, tell no lies; 'Where was you hid, in Vince's eyes? 'Did you fair Bennet's breast importune? '(I know you dearly love a fortune.)' Poor Cupid now began to whine; 'Mamma, it was no fault of mine. 'I in a dimple lay perdue, 'That little guard-room chose by you. 'A hundred Loves (all arm'd) did grace 'The beauties of her neck and face; 'Thence, by a sigh I, dispossessed, 'Was blown to Harry Fielding's breast; 'Where I was forc'd all night to stay, 'Because I could not find my way. 'But did mamma know there what work 'I've made, how acted like a Turk; 'What pains, what torment he endures, 'Which no physician ever cures, 'She would forgive.' The goddess smil'd And gently chuck'd her wicked child, Bid him go back, and take more care, And give her service to the fair.