Classic Poem

Let Stella boast how many die,
Pierc'd thro' with Arrows from her Eye;
Let graceful Celia 's Shape and Mein
O'er fifty Hearts confirm her Queen;
Amelia wounds us with her Wit,
And gains a Conquest more compleat;
Our Passions all to her submit.

A Face, or Form, may move Desire,
Yet kindle but a sensual Fire:
'Tis Wit alone that can controul
The Judgment, and enslave the Soul;
Can make that Part Amelia 's Prize,
Which soars above the Charm that lies
In Celia 's Form, or Stella 's Eyes.