Celia's Triumph, Or, Venus Dethron'd.
The Gods forsake their Venus quite,
And make fair Celia their Delight;
Who now they have Enthron'd above,
And made her Queen of Us, and Love.
To a new Tune of, Let the Critticks adore, as it is Sung at the Play-house.
With Allowance. May 8. 1678. Ro. L'Estrange.
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LEt the Critticks adore,
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Their Old Venus no more,
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She's a Gypsie,
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Silly Mortals ne'r think,
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That the Goddess will Drink
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and he Tipsie.
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None but Vulcan can abide her,
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she's grown so Black of late,
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In his Cole-hole he does hide her,
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to secure her from fate:
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All the Gods are stark mad,
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for a Venus more fair,
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And swear they'd be glad,
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that my Celia were there,
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For her beauty transcends,
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What fortune commends,
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I there Dowdy,
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All the Sphears took their light,
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From her Lustre more bright,
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that were Cloudy.
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At which transformation,
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the Gods they stood mute,
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Like Stocks in their Station,
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none dareing Dispute,
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The force of her eyes
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which so wholly had gain'd
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From sad Venus the prize,
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which Celia obtain'd.
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Boast no more in Dull Rhimes,
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Brisk Lads of the times,
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that your Misses
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Whom you onely can prize,
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'Cause by hopes you may rise
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to dry Kisses.
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For their High-flown desires,
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could never attain
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To what Phillis aspires,
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for Celia shall raign:
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And since Venus submitted
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to her prevalent charms,
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And her Soveraignity quitted,
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she slights your allarms.
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Let no new Upstart then
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Pretend to cross men
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with false flashes,
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And with pantings presume,
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Which the Mercuries consume
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into ashes.
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But Submit and admire,
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what in Celia is found,
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And blushing retire
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to leave Celia Crown'd:
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Let their Gallants run mad,
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for meer spight to behold,
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What made Phillis so sad,
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and Venus so cold.
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Let the Poets lay down
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Their long Usurped Crown,
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and present it
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Her the Muses have had,
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In their beauties been clad,
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and had lent it.
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But for Celia's great Glory,
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to dispose it where she
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Might in Fortunes Story,
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the chief wonder be:
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In adoring her beauty,
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I to happiness rise,
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And pay amorous Duty
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to Celia's Eyes.
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To their forces I gave
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Myself a willing slave,
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and am freer
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Then a Monarch in's Throne,
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Who calls Europe his own,
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shou'd he see her.
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For her Charms, like Medea's,
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would Eclipse his great state,
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Had he bounds, as the Sea has,
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he must yield to his Fate,
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And adore my bright Star,
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by whose influence I move,
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Like the Great God of War,
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in the Orb of her Love.
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Where I seated shall Raign,
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And still happy remain,
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since she gave me
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In return of my pain,
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What the Gods could not gain,
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and did save me.
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From a desperate fate,
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which her scorn would invite,
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And have put a full date
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to my joy and delight:
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But since she prefers me
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to the Gods, by whose pain,
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I shall freed from all fears be,
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and Celia obtain.
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