IT is not, Celia, in our power
To say how long our love will last;
It may be we within this hour
May lose those joys we now do taste;
LADIES, though to your conquering eyes
Love owes his chiefest victories,
And borrows those bright arms from you
With which he does the world subdue,
Sweetest bud of beauty, may
No untimely frost decay
Th' early glories which we trace
Blooming in thy matchless face:
If she be not as kind as fair,
But peevish and unhandy,
Leave her, she's only worth the care
Of some spruce Jack-a-dandy.
The pleasures of Love and the joys of good Wine,
To perfect our happiness, wisely we join!
We, to Beauty, all day.