The Je ne sçay quoi. A Song
by William Whitehead (1715-1785)
Yes, I’m in love, I feel it now,
And Cælia 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—
’Twas both perhaps, or neither;
In short, ’twas that provoking charm
Of Cælia altogether.