Know, Celia, since thou art so proud,	
  ’Twas I that gave thee thy renown;	
Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd	
  Of common beauties lived unknown,	
Had not my verse extoll’d thy name,
And with it imp’d the wings of Fame.	
 
That killing power is none of thine:	
  I gave it to thy voice and eyes;	
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;	
  Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies;
Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere	
Lightning on him that fixed thee there.	
 
Tempt me with such affrights no more,	
  Lest what I made I uncreate;	
Let fools thy mystic forms adore,
  I know thee in thy mortal state:	
Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales,	
Knew her themselves through all her veils.