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Soon or late they both will fiad
Time their idol from them sever ; He must leave his gold behind, Lock'd within his
CELIA's fate will still be worse,
When her fading charms deceive her, Vain desire will be her curse
When po mortal will relieve her. Celia, hoard thy charms no more,
Beaаty's like the miser's treasure ; Taste a little of thy store ;
What is beauty without pleasure ?
As the snow in valleys lying,
Soon dissolves and runs away;
At approaching age decay.
As a tyrant when degraded
By the slaves he once control'd;
So the nymph, if none could move her, Is contemn'd by every lover,
When her charms are growing old.
Melancholic looks and whining,
Are th' effects your rigours move;
Are the blest effects of love.
Fair ones, while your beauty's blooming Use your time, lest age resuming
What your youth profusely lends, You are robb'd of all your glories, And condcmn'd to tell old stories
To your unbelieving friends.
Celia, too late you would repent;
The offering all your store Is now but like a pardon sent
To one that's dead before.
While at first you cruel proved,
And grant the bliss too late, You hinder'd me of one I lored
To give me one I hate.
I thought you innocent as fair,
When first my court I made;
My love no longer stay'd.
Your bounty of those favours shown,
Whose worth you first deface, Is melting valued medals down,
And giving us the brass.
Oh! since the thing we beg's a toy,
By lovers prized alone,
Before our love is gone?
If the quick spirit of your eye,
If every sweet and every gracey loomajul
Or if that golden fleece must grow!
Thus either Time his sickle brings lo vain, or else in vain his wings.
Late when love I seem'd to slight,
PHYLLIS smiled, as well she might; 66 Now," said she, our throne may tremblo, Men our province now invade, Men take up our royal trade,
Men, even men, do now dissemble, In the dust our empire 's laid."'",
Tutor’d by the wise and gravey? 17349 !!
Mistress sounded arbitrary,
But she scorns une jot to vary, She will love, or nothing, claim.
Be a lover, or pretend,
Friendship of another kind is,
Love, one grain is worth the Indies,
Au! Culoris, could I now but sit
As unconcern'd as when
No happiness nor paio !
And praised the coming day,' .,
Would take my rest away.'