text: Come, my Celia, let us prove,
  While we can, the sports of love;
  Time will not be ours forever;
  He at length our good will sever.
  Spend not then his gifts in vain.
  Suns that set may rise again;
  But if once we lose this light,
  Tis with us perpetual night.
  Why should we defer our joys?
  Fame and rumor are but toys.
  Cannot we delude the eyes
  Of a few poor household spies,
  Or his easier ears beguile,
  So removed by our wile?
  Tis no sin loves fruit to steal;
  But the sweet thefts to reveal,
  To be taken, to be seen,
  These have crimes accounted been.