Come my Celia, let us prove,
We may the sweets of love,
Time will not be ours for ever,
He at lenght our good will sever,
Spend not then his gifts in vaine,
Sunnes that set may rise again,
But if we once loose this light,
'tis with us perpetuall night.
Why should wee deferre our joyes?
Fame and rumour are but toyes.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore household spyes,
Or his easier eares beguile,
Thus removed by our wile?
'tis no sinne loves fruit to steale,
but the sweete theft to reveale,
to be taken, to be seene,
these have crimes accounted been.