Tell me no more you love; in vain,
Fair Celia, you this passion feign. 
Can they pretend to love who do
Refuse what love persuades them to? 
Who once hath felt his active flame,
Dull laws of honour will disclaim;
You would be thought his slave; and yet 
You will not to his power submit,
More cruel than those beauties are
Whose coyness wounds us to despair;
For all the kindness which you show, 
Each smile and kiss which you bestow,
Are like those cordials which we give 
To dying men to make them live,
And languish out an hour in pain.
Be kinder, Celia, or disdain.