V: Song: To Celia

Come my Celia, let us prove,

While wee may, the sports of love;

Time will not be ours, for'ever:

He, at length, our good will fever.

Spend not then his gifts in vaine.

Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:

But, if once wee lose this light,

'Tis, with us, perpetuall night.

Why should we deferre our joyes?

Fame, and rumor are but toyes.

Cannot wee delude the eyes

Of a few poore houshold spyes?

Or his easier eares beguile,

So removed by our wile?

'Tis no sinne, loves fruit to steale,

But the sweet theft to reveale:

To bee taken, to be seene,

These have crimes accounted beene.