Come my Celia, let us prove, br While wee may, the sports of love; br Time will not be ours, for'ever: br He, at length, our good will fever. br Spend not then his gifts in vaine. br Sunnes, that set, may rise againe: br But, if once wee lose this light, br 'Tis, with us, perpetuall night. br Why should we deferre our joyes? br Fame, and rumor are but toyes. br Cannot wee delude the eyes br Of a few poore houshold spyes? br Or his easier eares beguile, br So removed by our wile? br 'Tis no sinne, loves fruit to steale, br But the sweet theft to reveale: br To bee taken, to be seene, br These have crimes accounted beene.