"The plague of love"
di William Whitehead (1715-1785)

Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Celia has undone me;
And yet I'll swear, I can't tell how,
The pleasing plague stole on me.
'Tis not her face that love creates,
For there no graces revel;
'Tis not her shape,
For there the Fates have rather been uncivil.
'Tis not her air, for sure in that
There's nothing more than common;
And all her sense is only chat,
Like any other woman.
Her voice, her touch, might give th' alarm;
'Tis both, perhaps, or neither;
In short, 'tis that provoking charm
Of Celia all together!