html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }You tell me, Celia, you approve,
Yet never must return my love;
An answer that my hope destroys,
And in the Cradle wounds our joys.
To kill at once what needs must die,
None would to Birds and Beasts deny.
How can you then so cruel prove,
As to preserve and torture Love?
That Beauty Nature kindly meant
For her own Pride, and our Content;
Why shou'd the Tyrant Honour make
Our greatest torment? Let us break
His Yoke, and that base power disdain,
Which only keeps the good in pain.
In Love and War th' Impostor do's
The best to greatest harms expose.
Come then, my Celia, let's no more
This Devil, for a God adore.
Like foolish Indians we have been,
Whose whole Religion is a sin.
If we the Laws of Love had kept,
And not in Dreams of Honour slept,
He wou'd have surely, long ere this,
Have Crown'd us with the highest Bliss;
Our Joy had then been as compleat,
As now our Folly has been great.
Let's lose no time then, but repent,
Love welcomes best a Penitent.