TILL I beheld fair Celia's face, Where perfect beauty keeps her court, A lover's passion found no place In me, who counted love a sport; I thought the whole world could not move A well resolvèd heart to love. Wounded by her I now adore Those powers of love I have defied, I court the flames I scorned before, And am repaid with scorn and pride; In such unpitied flames to dwell, Is not a martyrdom, but hell. Cupid can't help me, nor wound her, He'll rather prove my rival hence, Though blind, he'll turn idolater, For she hath charms for every sense; Should he her voice's music hear, Soft love would enter love's own ear. |