Cælia's Complaint.
[I]
Poor
Cælia once was very fair,
A quick bewitching Eye she had;
Most neatly look'd her braided Hair,
Her dainty Cheek would make you mad;
Upon her Lips did all the Graces play
And on her Breasts ten Thousand Thousand Cupids lay.
II
Then many a doting Lover came
From Seventeen till Twenty one;
Each told her of his mighty slame,
But She, forsooth, affected none:
One was not Handsome, th'other was not Fine;
This of Tobacco smelt, and that of Wine.
III
But t'other day it was my fate
To walk along that way alone;
I saw no Coach before her gate,
But at her dore I heard her moan:
She dropt a Tear, and sighing seem'd to say,
Young Ladies, Marry, Marry while you may.
