While the nymph, his darts defying,
Triumph’d o’er her thousands slain.
With their woes too rashly sporting,
Still more fatal darts were sought;
Anxious to augment her fortune,
She a lott’ry-ticket bought.
But old Plutus, sullen power,
Can the fair and brave withstand;
He, in the [decisive] hour,
Shov’d a blank to Celia’s hand: