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 lose 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 removed 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. |