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Love arms himself in Celia's eyes
Whene'er weak Reason would rebel ; And every time I dare be wise,
Alas! a deeper wound I feel.
Repeated thoughts present the ill
Which seeing I must still endure; They tell me Love has darts to kill,
And Wisdom has no power to cure.
Then, cruel Reason, give me rest,
Quit in my heart thy feeble hold; Go try thy force in Celia's breast,
For that is disengaged and cold.
There all thy nicest arts employ ;
Confess thyself her beauty's slave, And argue, whilst she may destroy,
How great, how godlike 't is to save.
Young I am, and yet unskill'd
Take me, take me, some of you,
Say not, Olinda, I despise
The faded glories of your face, The languish'd vigour of your eyes,
And that once only-loved embrace.
In vain, in vain, my constant heart,
On aged wings, attempts to meet,
I blame not your decay of power,
You may have pointed beauties still, Tho' me, alas! they wound no more ;
You cannot hurt what cannot feel.
On youthful climes your beams display,
There you may cherish with your heat, And rise the sun to gild their day,
To me, benighted, when you set.
O Nymph! of Fortune's smiles beware,
Nor heed the syren's flattering tongue; She lures thee to the haunts of care,
Where sorrow pours a ceaseless, song.
Ah! what are all her piles of gold?
Can those the hosts of care control? The splendour which thine eyes behold
Is not the sunshine of the soul.
To Love alone thy homage pay,
The queen of every true delight: Her smiles with joy shall gild thy day,
And bless the visions of the night.
Wuy, lovely charmer, tell me why,
Or why that smile my soul subdue,
In vain you strive with all your art
Ye virgin powers, defend my heart
From amorous looks and smiles;
Which most our sex beguiles ;
That do to pity move;
Those springs that water love.
But if thro' passion I grow blind,
Let honour be my guide ;
There place a guard of pride.