Know, Celia, (since thou art so proud,)

'Twas I that gave thee thy renown

Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd

Of common beauties, lived unknown,

Had not my verse exhaled thy name,

And with it impt the wings of Fame.

That killing power is none of thine,

I gave it to thy voice and eyes

Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;

Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies!

Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere

Lightning on him that fixed thee there.  

Thomas Carew.

Clouds turn with every wind about; 

They keep us in suspense and doubt;

Yet oft perverse, like woman-kind,

Are seen to scud against the wind.

Is not this lady just the same?

For who can tell what is her aim?  

Thou delightest the cold world's gaze,

When crowned with the flower and the gem,

But thy lover's smile should be dearer praise

Than the incense thou prizest from them.

And gay is the playful tone,

As to the flattering voice thou respondents;

But what is the praise of the cold and unknown

To the tender blame of the fondest? 

John Everett