On a Lady who pretended to tell Fortunes. BY MR. MOTTLEY.
Some oracles of old, to cause more wonder,
Were, when pronounced, accompanied with thunder:
But thy predictions come not in a storm,
They are delivered by the brightest form:
If, when you speak, Jove does not pierce the sky,
Yet still you’ve all his lightning in your eye.
The Cure of Love.
When, Chloe, I confess my pain,
In gentle words your pity show;