Song: To Celia

Come my Celia, let us prove, While wee may, the sports of love; Time will not be ours, for'ever: He, at length, our good will fever. Spend not then his gifts in vaine. Sunnes, that set, may rise againe: But, if once wee lose this light, 'Tis, with us, perpetuall night. Why should we deferre our joyes? Fame, and rumor are but toyes. Cannot wee delude the eyes Of a few poore houshold spyes? Or his easier eares beguile, So removed by our wile? 'Tis no sinne, loves fruit to steale, But the sweet theft to reveale: To bee taken, to be seene, These have crimes accounted beene.