A SONG. Young Celia was sprightly and gay; Had the Bloom of Fifteen on her Cheek: Her Lovers came flocking each Day, And a thousand fond Things they wou'd speak. She, giddy and thoughtless, gave Ear To the Tale of each flattering Tongue; And thought she was blest, to appear In a Circle of Lovers so young. Thus elate with the Conquests she gain'd, She neglected to act with a Grace; And thought that her Triumph for Life, Was secure by the Charms of her Face. While Cynthia, more modest and coy, Not a Lover yet boasts in her Train; Which Celia with Pleasure observ'd, And delighted to give the Nymph Pain. Her Lovers grew cold and dropp'd off, As her Folly increas'd with her Years; When Time had her Beauty defac'd, They left her to Wrinkles and Tears. While Cynthia took Care to supply With each Grace the swift Conquest of Time; And was much more belov'd in Decay, Than Celia was e'er in her Prime. Her Mind, with each Virtue replete, Had enamour'd a right-judging Swain; Who sought her to make them both blest: And still is unrivall'd her Reign. All ye fair, that attend to my Song, Be ye warned by Celia's ill Fate; Think the Graces to Beauty belong; Lest forsaken, you court them too late.