SONG to CLOE, playing on her Spinet.

WHEN Cloe strikes the trembling Strings,
 Applauding Cupids round her fly;
 Exulting clap their little Wings
 Bask'd in the Sun-shine of her Eye. 
The Graces too,
 As others do,
 In Raptures stand to hear,
 Time stays his flagging Wings, and adds,
 One Hour to the rolling Year:
 Keep off, ye Beaus,
 For who but knows
 That Cloe's Eyes can wound? 
If those you miss — yet pray avoid
 The Danger of enchanting Sound. 

Amphion led the ravish'd Stones
 (They say) — and as he'd rise or fall,
 Bricks, Pebbles, Slats, and Marrow-Bones
 Wou'd form a Steeple or a Wall:
 But this, you know,
 Is long ago:
 We fancy 'tis a Whim:
 O had they charming Cloe heard,
 They'd surely not have stir'd for him. 
The Thracian Bard,
 Whose Fate was hard,
 (And Proserpine severe)
 Had brought Eurydice back — alas! 
But Cloe was not there.