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If to the park thou go'st, the plays are ill;
If to the plays, he thinks the air would kill.
The other day he gaz'd upon thy face,
As he would grow a statue in the place;
And who indeed does not? like a new star,
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Beauty like thine strikes wonder from afar.
Alas! methinks thou art ill-dress'd to-night;
This point's too poor; thy necklace is not right;
This gown was by some botching tailor made,
It spoils thy shape; this fucus is ill laid.
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Hear me, and be as happy as thou'rt fair:
Damon is rich, and what thou wanst, can spare.
Like thine his face, like thine his eyes are thought.
Would he not buy, he might himself be bought."
Fair Lucia blush'd. "It is a sign of grace,
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(Dypsas replied,) that red becomes thy face.
All lovers now by what they give are weighed,
And she is best belov'd that best is paid;
The sun-burnt Latins, in old Tatius' reign,
Did to one man perhaps their love restrain:
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