Poem by Ben Jonson

Song to Celia (Come, my Celia, let us prove)

Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever.

Spend not then his gifts in vain;
Suns that set may rise again,
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.

Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?

'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;
But the sweet theft to reveal,
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.

1. Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke
2. To Censorious Courtling
3. His Supposed Mistress
4. Queen and Huntress
5. To Francis Beaumont

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