WHEN Sylvia was kind, and Love play'd in her Eyes,
We thought it no Morning till Sylvia did rise;
Of Sylvia the Hills and the Vallies all Rang,
For she was the Subject of every Song.
But now, oh how little her Glories do move,
That us'd to inflame us, with Raptures of Love;
Thy Rigour, oh Sylvia, will shorten thy Reign,
And make our bright Goddess a Mortal again.