Come, My Celia

Come, my Celia, let us prove,

While we can, the sports of love,

Time will not be ours for ever,

He, at length, our good will sever;

Spend not then his gifts in vain;

Suns, that set, may rise again:

But if once we loose this light,

'Tis with us perpetual night.

Why should we defer our joys?

Fame and rumour are but toys.

Cannot we delude the eyes

Of a few poor household spies?

Or his easier ears beguile,

Thus remooved by our wile?--

'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal:

But the sweet thefts to reveal;

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.