FAIR Cælia too fondly contemns those Delights,
Wherewith gentle Nature hath soften’d the Nights;
If she be so kind to present us with Pow’r,
The Fault is our own to neglect the good Hour:
Who gave thee this Beauty, ordain’d thou should’st be,
As kind to thy Slaves, as the Gods were to thee.
Then Cælia no longer reserve the vain Pride,
Of wronging thy self, to see others deny’d;
If Love be a Pleasure, alass! you will find,
We both are not happy, when both are most kind:
But Women, like Priests, do in others reprove,
And call that thing Lust, which in them is but Love.
What they thro’ their Madness and Folly create,
We poor silly Slaves still impute to our Fate;
But in such Distempers where Love is the Grief,
’Tis Cælia, not Heaven, must give us Relief:
Then away with those Titles of Honour and Cause,
Which first made us sin, by giving us Laws.
A SONG.
Set by Mr. William Turner.
[[Listen]]