Celia's Complaint, for the loss of her Virginity.
She by fair words was quickly won,
Amintas prov'd Unkind;
And Celia says, she's quite Undone,
Much troubled in her mind.
To the Tune of, Philander:
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DEath quickly come away,
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and ease me of my pain,
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The longer here I stay,
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my Life I must disdain:
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Such deadly smart, doth pierce my heart,
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no mortal can endure,
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Then let me dye,
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For certainly,
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I ne'r shall find a Cure.
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Amintas he is gone,
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I am forsaken quite,
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He was the onely Man,
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in whom I took delight:
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My Life to me, is Misery,
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since he is so unkind,
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He's from me fled,
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And I half Dead,
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poor soul, am left behind.
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I Languish now in Grief
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by Night, and eke by Day,
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I can find no Relief,
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but hourly waste away:
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Was ever Lass, at this strange pass,
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or Wounded like to me;
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Come quickly Death,
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To stop my Breath,
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and end my Misery.
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I wish I ne'r had seen
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those eyes that me betray'd,
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Then surely had I been,
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a matchless happy Maid:
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Deluding Tongue, thou did'st me wrong,
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as well as his fair eyes;
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And Conquer'd all,
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I had a fall,
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and ne'r again shall rise.
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MY spotless Virgins Fort,
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thou strongly didst assault,
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My Favour thou didst Court,
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and this was my great fault:
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So soon to yield, to thee the Field,
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which did my Honour stain;
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And now I cry,
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Continually,
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poor Celia Lov'd in vain.
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You Damsels all beware,
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take warning now by me,
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And let not Speeches fair,
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betray your Honesty:
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For I, poor I, assuredly,
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by them too soon was won:
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In discontent,
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I now Lament,
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alas, I'm quite undone.
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Ten thousand Sighs and Sobs,
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part with e'ry day,
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I feel such pangs and Throbs,
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and so Consume away:
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That with desire, I burn like fire,
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to be within thy Grave:
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Which to obtain,
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Would be my gain,
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that's all I now would have.
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False Young-men now give o're,
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and cease for to betray,
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Deceive poor Maids no more,
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who hardly can say nay:
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But quickly bow, and make a vow,
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to Love you evermore:
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Then them you leave,
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To mourn and grieve,
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which grieves their hearts full sore.
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But 'tis a dreadful thing,
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that you should use them so,
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Which to their hearts will bring
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such Sorrow, Grief, and Woe:
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That often times, maids in their primes,
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they do themselves destroy:
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Because they find,
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Their Loves unkind,
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and cannot them injoy.
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Then dally so no more,
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with Maidens that are kind,
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For Blessings in great store,
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the Honest man shall find:
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But he that doth flye from the Truth,
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of what he did protest:
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Shall met with be,
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Assuredly,
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believe me 'tis no Jest.
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