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.