Celia

Oft have I seen at early morn, All tempting to the view, A rose-bud on some lofty thorn Adorn'd with glitt'ring dew.

A symbol 'twas of that dear fair, Whose beauties rank'd so high; From mortal reach, 'twas planted there, To blush, to charm and die.

Yet, Celia, wer't thou fix'd so near, With ev'ry peril round; And should the thorny bushes tear, I'd triumph in each wound:

To climb for thee, no pains I'd dread, Regardless bear the smart, Nor dread what blood of mine I shed, To get at Celia's heart.