Must for the treasure pant in vain.
Bright Celia, with her conquering eyes,
Attempts to win the doubtful prize:
She darts a glance, ah! cruel maid,
Philander drops! a strapping blade.
The youth as frantic now behaves;
Of love and flames, and darts he raves.
Not Esculapius’ sons can cure,
Nor ease the pangs he must endure.
At last the charmer gives consent;