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