Sir George Etherege Poems

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;
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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,
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Sweetest bud of beauty, may
No untimely frost decay
Th' early glories which we trace
Blooming in thy matchless face:
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The pleasures of Love and the joys of good Wine,
To perfect our happiness, wisely we join!

We, to Beauty, all day.
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