The Description Of Bath A Poem. Humbly Inscribed To Her Royal Highness the Princess Amelia. By Mrs. Mary Chandler. The Third Edition. To which are added, Several Poems by the same Author |
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A SONG.
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 | The Description Of Bath |  |
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A SONG.
Young Celia was sprightly and gay;
Had the Bloom of Fifteen on her Cheek:
Her Lovers came flocking each Day,
And a thousand fond Things they wou'd speak.
She, giddy and thoughtless, gave Ear
To the Tale of each flattering Tongue;
And thought she was blest, to appear
In a Circle of Lovers so young.
Had the Bloom of Fifteen on her Cheek:
Her Lovers came flocking each Day,
And a thousand fond Things they wou'd speak.
She, giddy and thoughtless, gave Ear
To the Tale of each flattering Tongue;
And thought she was blest, to appear
In a Circle of Lovers so young.
Thus elate with the Conquests she gain'd,
She neglected to act with a Grace;
And thought that her Triumph for Life,
Was secure by the Charms of her Face.
While Cynthia, more modest and coy,
Not a Lover yet boasts in her Train;
Which Celia with Pleasure observ'd,
And delighted to give the Nymph Pain.
She neglected to act with a Grace;
And thought that her Triumph for Life,
Was secure by the Charms of her Face.
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Not a Lover yet boasts in her Train;
Which Celia with Pleasure observ'd,
And delighted to give the Nymph Pain.
Her Lovers grew cold and dropp'd off,
As her Folly increas'd with her Years;
When Time had her Beauty defac'd,
They left her to Wrinkles and Tears.
While Cynthia took Care to supply
With each Grace the swift Conquest of Time;
And was much more belov'd in Decay,
Than Celia was e'er in her Prime.
As her Folly increas'd with her Years;
When Time had her Beauty defac'd,
They left her to Wrinkles and Tears.
While Cynthia took Care to supply
With each Grace the swift Conquest of Time;
And was much more belov'd in Decay,
Than Celia was e'er in her Prime.
Her Mind, with each Virtue replete,
Had enamour'd a right-judging Swain;
Who sought her to make them both blest:
And still is unrivall'd her Reign.
All ye fair, that attend to my Song,
Be ye warned by Celia's ill Fate;
Think the Graces to Beauty belong;
Lest forsaken, you court them too late.
Had enamour'd a right-judging Swain;
Who sought her to make them both blest:
And still is unrivall'd her Reign.
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Be ye warned by Celia's ill Fate;
Think the Graces to Beauty belong;
Lest forsaken, you court them too late.
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