CELIA
TO
DAMON
.
Atque
in
Amore
mala
hæc
proprio
,
summèque
secundo
Inveniuntur
—
Lucret.
Lib.
4.
What
can
I
say
?
What
Arguments
can
prove
My
Truth
?
What
Colors
can
describe
my
Love
?
If
it's
Excess
and
Fury
be
not
known
,
In
what
Thy
Celia
has
already
done
.
Thy
Infant
Flames
,
whilst
yet
they
were
conceal'd
In
tim'rous
Doubts
,
with
Pity
I
beheld
;
With
easie
Smiles
dispell'd
the
silent
Fear
,
That
durst
not
tell
Me
,
what
I
dy'd
to
hear
:
In
vain
I
strove
to
check
my
growing
Flame
,
Or
shelter
Passion
under
Friendship's
Name
:
You
saw
my
Heart
,
how
it
my
Tongue
bely'd
;
And
when
You
press'd
,
how
faintly
I
deny'd
—
E'er
Guardian
Thought
could
bring
it's
scatter'd
Aid
;
E'er
Reason
could
support
the
doubting
Maid
;
My
Soul
surpriz'd
,
and
from
her
self
disjoin'd
,
Left
all
Reserve
,
and
all
the
Sex
behind
:
From
your
Command
her
Motions
She
receiv'd
;
And
not
for
Me
,
but
You
,
She
breath'd
and
liv'd
.
But
ever
blest
be
Cytherea's
Shrine
;
And
Fires
Eternal
on
Her
Altars
shine
;
Since
Thy
dear
Breast
has
felt
an
equal
Wound
;
Since
in
Thy
Kindness
my
Desires
are
crown'd
.
By
Thy
each
Look
,
and
Thought
,
and
Care
'tis
shown
,
Thy
Joys
are
center'd
All
in
Me
Alone
;
And
sure
I
am
,
Thou
would'st
not
change
this
Hour
For
all
the
white
Ones
,
Fate
has
in
it's
Pow'r
.
—
Yet
thus
belov'd
,
thus
loving
to
Excess
;
Yet
thus
receiving
and
returning
Bliss
;
In
this
great
Moment
,
in
this
golden
Now
,
When
ev'ry
Trace
of
What
,
or
When
,
or
How
Should
from
my
Soul
by
raging
Love
be
torn
,
And
far
on
Swelling
Seas
of
Rapture
born
;
A
melancholy
Tear
afflicts
my
Eye
;
And
my
Heart
labours
with
a
sudden
Sigh
:
Invading
Fears
repel
my
Coward
Joy
;
And
Ills
foreseen
the
present
Bliss
destroy
.
Poor
as
it
is
,
This
Beauty
was
the
Cause
,
That
with
first
Sighs
Your
panting
Bosom
rose
:
But
with
no
Owner
Beauty
long
will
stay
,
Upon
the
Wings
of
Time
born
swift
away
:
Pass
but
some
fleeting
Years
,
and
These
poor
Eyes
(
Where
now
without
a
Boast
some
Lustre
lyes
)
No
longer
shall
their
little
Honors
keep
;
Shall
only
be
of
use
to
read
,
or
weep
:
And
on
this
Forehead
,
where
your
Verse
has
said
,
The
Loves
delighted
,
and
the
Graces
play'd
;
Insulting
Age
will
trace
his
cruel
Way
,
And
leave
sad
Marks
of
his
destructive
Sway
.
Mov'd
by
my
Charms
,
with
them
your
Love
may
cease
,
And
as
the
Fuel
sinks
,
the
Flame
decrease
:
Or
angry
Heav'n
may
quicker
Darts
prepare
;
And
Sickness
strike
what
Time
awhile
would
spare
.
Then
will
my
Swain
His
glowing
Vows
renew
:
Then
will
His
throbbing
Heart
to
Mine
beat
true
;
When
my
own
Face
deters
Me
from
my
Glass
;
And
Kneller
only
shows
what
Celia
was
.
Fantastic
Fame
may
sound
her
wild
Alarms
:
Your
Country
,
as
You
think
,
may
want
your
Arms
.
You
may
neglect
,
or
quench
,
or
hate
the
Flame
,
Whose
Smoke
too
long
obscured
your
rising
Name
:
And
quickly
cold
Indiff'rence
will
ensue
;
When
You
Love's
Joys
thro'
Honor's
Optic
view
.
Then
Celia's
loudest
Pray'r
will
prove
too
weak
,
To
this
abandon'd
Breast
to
bring
You
back
;
When
my
lost
Lover
the
tall
Ship
ascends
,
With
Musick
gay
,
and
wet
with
Jovial
Friends
:
The
tender
Accents
of
a
Woman's
Cry
Will
pass
unheard
,
will
unreguarded
die
;
When
the
rough
Seaman's
louder
Shouts
prevail
;
When
fair
Occasion
shows
the
springing
Gale
;
And
Int'rest
guides
the
Helm
;
and
Honor
swells
the
Sail
.
Some
wretched
Lines
from
this
neglected
Hand
,
May
find
my
Hero
on
the
foreign
Strand
,
Warm
with
new
Fires
,
and
pleas'd
with
new
Command
:
While
She
who
wrote
'em
,
of
all
Joy
bereft
,
To
the
rude
Censure
of
the
World
is
left
;
Her
mangl'd
Fame
in
barb'rous
Pastime
lost
,
The
Coxcomb's
Novel
,
and
the
Drunkard's
Toast
.
But
nearer
Care
(
O
pardon
it
!
)
supplies
Sighs
to
my
Breast
,
and
Sorrow
to
my
Eyes
.
Love
,
Love
himself
(
the
only
Friend
I
have
)
May
scorn
his
Triumph
,
having
bound
his
Slave
.
That
Tyrant
God
,
that
restless
Conqueror
May
quit
his
Pleasure
,
to
assert
his
Pow'r
;
Forsake
the
Provinces
that
bless
his
Sway
,
To
vanquish
Those
which
will
not
yet
obey
.
Another
Nymph
with
fatal
Pow'r
may
rise
,
To
damp
the
sinking
Beams
of
Celia's
Eyes
;
With
haughty
Pride
may
hear
Her
Charms
confest
;
And
scorn
the
ardent
Vows
that
I
have
blest
:
You
ev'ry
Night
may
sigh
for
Her
in
vain
;
And
rise
each
Morning
to
some
fresh
Disdain
:
While
Celia's
softest
Look
may
cease
to
Charm
;
And
Her
Embraces
want
the
Pow'r
to
warm
:
While
these
fond
Arms
,
thus
circling
You
,
may
prove
More
heavy
Chains
,
than
Those
of
hopeless
Love
.
Just
Gods
!
All
other
Things
their
Like
produce
:
The
Vine
arises
from
her
Mother's
Juice
:
When
feeble
Plants
,
or
tender
Flow'rs
decay
;
They
to
their
Seed
their
Images
convey
:
Where
the
old
Myrtle
her
good
Influence
sheds
;
Sprigs
of
like
Leaf
erect
their
Filial
Heads
:
And
when
the
Parent
Rose
decays
,
and
dies
;
With
a
resembling
Face
the
Daughter-Buds
arise
.
That
Product
only
which
our
Passions
bear
,
Eludes
the
Planter's
miserable
Care
:
While
blooming
Love
assures
us
Golden
Fruit
;
Some
inborn
Poison
taints
the
secret
Root
:
Soon
fall
the
Flow'rs
of
Joy
:
soon
Seeds
of
Hatred
shoot
.
Say
,
Shepherd
,
say
:
Are
these
Reflections
true
?
Or
was
it
but
the
Woman's
Fear
,
that
drew
This
cruel
Scene
,
unjust
to
Love
and
You
?
Will
You
be
only
,
and
for
ever
Mine
?
Shall
neither
Time
,
nor
Age
our
Souls
disjoin
?
From
this
dear
Bosom
shall
I
ne'er
be
torn
?
Or
You
grow
cold
,
respectful
,
and
forsworn
?
And
can
You
not
for
Her
You
love
do
more
,
Than
any
Youth
for
any
Nymph
before
?