Till I beheld fair Cælia's face,
where perfect Beauty keeps her Court,
A Lovers passion found no place in me,
who counted Love a sport:
I thought the whole world could not 
move a well resolved heart to love.

Wounded by her I now adore
Those pow'rs of Love I have defi'd,
I court the flames I scorn'd before,
And am repayd with Scorn and Pride:
In such unpitty'd Flames to dwell,
Is not a Martyrdome, but Hell.

Cupid can't help me, nor wound her,
He'l rather prove my Rivall hence,
Though blind he'l turn Idolater,
For she hath Charms for ev'ry sence;
Should he her voyce's musick heare,
Soft Love would enter Love's own Eare.