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.

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