Strephon's
Love
for
Delia
justified
:
In
an
Epistle
to
Celadon
.
All
Men
have
Follies
,
which
they
blindly
trace
Thro'
the
dark
Turnings
of
a
dubious
Maze
:
But
happy
those
,
who
by
a
prudent
Care
,
Retreat
betimes
,
from
the
fallacious
Snare
.
The
eldest
Sons
of
Wisdom
were
not
free
From
the
same
Failure
you
condemn
in
me
;
They
lov'd
,
and
by
that
glorious
Passion
led
,
Forgot
what
Plato
,
and
themselves
had
said
.
Love
triumph'd
o'er
those
dull
pedantick
Rules
,
They
had
collected
from
the
wrangling
Schools
;
And
made
'em
to
his
nobler
Sway
submit
,
In
spight
of
all
their
Learning
,
Art
,
and
Wit
:
Their
grave
starch'd
Morals
then
unuseful
prov'd
,
Those
dusty
Characters
he
soon
remov'd
;
For
when
his
shining
Squadrons
came
in
view
,
Their
boasted
Reason
murmur'd
,
and
withdrew
:
Unable
to
oppose
their
mighty
Force
With
phlegmatick
Resolves
,
and
dry
Discourse
.
If
,
as
the
wisest
of
the
Wise
,
have
err'd
,
I
go
astray
,
and
am
condemn'd
unheard
;
My
Faults
you
too
severely
reprehend
,
More
like
a
rigid
Censor
,
than
a
Friend
.
Love
is
the
Monarch
Passion
of
the
Mind
,
Knows
no
Superior
,
by
no
Laws
confin'd
;
But
triumphs
still
,
impatient
of
Controul
,
O'er
all
the
proud
Endowments
of
the
Soul
.
You
own'd
my
Delia
Friend
,
divinely
fair
,
When
in
the
Bud
her
native
Beauties
were
:
Your
Praise
did
then
her
early
Charms
confess
,
Yet
you'd
perswade
me
to
adore
her
less
,
You
but
the
Non-age
of
her
Beauty
saw
,
But
might
from
thence
sublime
Ideas
draw
;
And
what
she
is
,
by
what
she
was
,
conclude
,
For
now
she
governs
those
,
she
then
subdu'd
.
Her
Aspect
noble
,
and
mature
is
grown
,
And
ev'ry
Charm
in
its
full
Vigour
known
.
There
we
may
wond'ring
View
,
distinctly
writ
,
The
Lines
of
Goodness
,
and
the
Marks
of
Wit
:
Each
Feature
emulous
,
of
pleasing
most
,
Does
justly
,
some
peculiar
Sweetness
boast
:
And
her
Composure's
of
so
fine
a
Frame
,
Pride
cannot
hope
to
mend
,
nor
envy
blame
.
When
the
immortal
Beauties
of
the
Skies
Contended
naked
for
the
golden
Prize
,
The
Apple
had
not
fall'n
to
Venus
share
,
Had
I
been
Paris
,
and
my
Delia
there
:
In
whom
alone
we
all
their
Graces
find
,
The
moving
Gayety
of
Venus
join'd
With
Juno's
Aspect
,
and
Minerva's
Mind
.
View
but
those
Nymphs
,
which
other
Swains
adore
You'll
value
charming
Delia
still
the
more
.
Dorinda's
Mien's
Majestick
,
but
her
Mind
Is
to
Revenge
and
Peevishness
inclin'd
:
Myrtilla's
fair
,
and
yet
Myrtilla's
proud
;
Cloe
has
Wit
,
but
noisy
,
vain
,
and
loud
:
Melania
doats
upon
the
silliest
things
,
And
yet
Melania
like
an
Angel
sings
.
But
in
my
Delia
all
Endowments
meet
,
All
that
is
just
,
agreeable
,
or
sweet
;
All
that
can
Praise
,
and
Admiration
move
;
All
that
the
Wisest
,
and
the
Bravest
love
.
In
all
Discourse
she's
apposite
and
gay
,
And
ne'er
wants
something
pertinent
to
say
:
For
if
the
Subject's
of
a
serious
kind
,
Her
Thoughts
are
manly
,
and
her
Sense
refin'd
,
But
if
divertive
,
her
Expressions
fit
Good
Language
,
joyn'd
with
inoffensive
Wit
So
cautious
always
,
that
she
ne'er
affords
An
idle
Thought
the
Charity
of
Words
.
The
Vices
common
to
her
Sex
,
can
find
No
room
,
e'en
in
the
Suburbs
of
her
Mind
.
Concluding
wisely
,
she's
in
danger
still
,
From
the
meer
Neighbourhood
of
industrious
Ill
;
Therefore
at
distance
keep
the
subtil
Foe
,
Whose
near
approach
would
formidable
grow
.
While
the
unwary
Virgin
is
undone
,
And
meets
the
Misery
which
she
ought
to
shun
.
He
Wit
is
penetrating
,
clear
,
and
gay
,
But
let's
true
Judgment
,
and
Right-reason
sway
:
Modestly
bold
,
and
quick
to
apprehend
,
Prompt
in
Replies
,
but
cautious
to
offend
.
Her
Darts
are
keen
,
but
level'd
with
such
Care
,
They
ne'er
fall
short
,
and
seldom
fly
too
far
:
For
when
she
rallies
,
'tis
with
so
much
Art
,
We
blush
with
Pleasure
,
and
with
Rapture
smart
.
O
Celadon
!
you
would
my
Flame
approve
Did
you
but
hear
her
talk
,
and
talk
of
Love
;
That
tender
Passion
to
her
Fancy
brings
The
prettiest
Notions
,
and
the
softest
Things
:
Which
are
by
her
so
movingly
exprest
,
They
fill
with
Extacy
my
throbbing
Breast
.
'Tis
then
the
Charms
of
Eloquence
impart
Their
native
Glories
,
unimprov'd
by
Art
:
By
what
she
says
,
I
measure
things
above
,
And
guess
the
Language
of
Seraphic
Love
.
To
the
cool
Bosom
of
a
peaceful
Shade
,
By
some
wild
Beech
,
or
lofty
Poplar
made
,
When
Ev'ning
comes
,
we
secretly
repair
,
To
breath
in
private
,
and
unbend
our
Care
:
And
,
while
our
Flocks
in
fruitful
Pastures
feed
,
Some
well-design'd
instructive
Poem
read
.
Where
useful
Morals
,
with
soft
Numbers
joyn'd
,
At
once
delight
,
and
cultivate
the
Mind
:
Which
are
by
her
to
more
Perfection
brought
,
By
wise
Remarks
upon
the
Poet's
Thought
.
So
well
she
knows
the
Stamp
of
Eloquence
,
The
empty
Sound
of
Words
from
solid
Sense
;
The
florid
Fustian
of
a
Rhyming
Spark
,
Whose
random
Arrow
ne'er
comes
ne'er
the
Mark
,
Can't
on
her
Judgement
be
impos'd
,
and
pass
For
Standard
Gold
,
when
'tis
but
gilded
Brass
,
Oft
in
the
Walks
of
an
adjacent
Grove
,
Where
first
we
mutually
engag'd
to
love
;
She'd
smiling
ask
me
,
whether
I'd
prefer
,
An
humble
Cottage
on
the
Plains
with
her
,
Before
the
pompous
Building
of
the
Great
,
And
find
Content
,
in
that
inferior
State
?
Said
I
,
the
Question
you
propose
to
me
,
Perhaps
a
matter
of
Debate
might
be
;
Were
the
Degrees
of
my
Affection
less
,
Than
burning
Martyrs
to
the
Gods
express
.
In
you
I've
all
I
can
desire
below
,
That
Earth
can
give
me
,
or
the
Gods
bestow
;
And
blest
with
you
,
I
know
not
where
to
find
A
second
Choice
;
you
take
up
all
my
Mind
.
I'd
not
forsake
that
dear
delightful
Plain
,
Where
charming
Delia
,
Love
and
Delia
reign
;
For
all
the
Splendor
that
a
Court
can
give
,
Where
gaudy
Fools
,
and
busy
Statesmen
live
.
Tho'
youthful
Paris
,
when
his
Birth
was
known
,
Too
fatally
related
to
a
Throne
,
Forsook
Oenone
,
and
his
rural
Sports
,
For
dangerous
Greatness
,
and
tumultuous
Courts
,
Yet
Fate
should
still
offer
its
Pow'r
in
vain
,
For
what
is
Pow'r
to
such
an
humble
Swain
?
I
would
not
leave
my
Delia
,
leave
my
Fair
,
Tho'
half
the
Globe
should
be
assign'd
my
Share
.
And
would
you
have
me
Friend
,
reflect
again
,
Become
the
basest
and
the
worst
of
Men
?
O
do
not
urge
me
Celadon
,
forbear
!
I
cannot
leave
her
,
she's
too
charming
Fair
!
Should
I
your
Counsel
in
this
case
pursue
,
You
might
suspect
me
for
a
Villain
too
:
For
sure
that
perjur'd
Wretch
can
never
prove
Just
to
his
Friend
,
who's
faithless
to
his
Love
.