Is there a man who would not be,
My Celia, what is priz'd by thee?
A monkey beau, to please thy sight,
Would wish to be a monkey quite.
Or (couldst thou be delighted so)
Each man of sense would be a beau.
Courtiers would quit their faithless skill,
To be thy faithful dog Quadrille.
P—lt—y, who does for freedom rage,
Would sing confin'd within thy cage;
And W—lp-le, for a tender pat,
Would leave his place to be thy cat.
May I, to please my lovely dame,
Be five foot shorter than I am;
And, to be greater in her eyes,
Be sunk to Lilliputian size.
While on thy hand I skipp'd the dance,
How I'd despise the king of France!
That hand! which can bestow a store
Richer than the Peruvian ore,
Richer than India, or the sea,
(That hand will give yourself away).
Upon your lap to lay me down,
Or hide in plaitings of your gown;
Or on your shoulder sitting high,
What monarch so enthroned as I?
Now on the rosy bud I'd rest,
Which borrows sweetness from thy breast.
Then when my Celia walks abroad,
I'd be her pocket's little load:
Or sit astride, to frighten people,
Upon her hat's new-fashioned steeple.
These for the day; and for the night,
I'd be a careful, watchful sprite.
Upon her pillow sitting still,
I'd guard her from th' approach of ill.
Thus (for afraid she could not be
Of such a little thing as me)
While I survey her bosom rise,
Her lovely lips, her sleeping eyes,
While I survey, what to declare
Nor fancy can, nor words must dare,
Here would begin my former pain,
And wish to be myself again.