BE wary, my Celia, when Celadon sues,
These wits are the bane of your charms:
Beauty, play’d against reason, will certainly lose,
Warring naked with robbers in arms.
Young Damon despis’d for his plainness of parts,
Has worth that a woman should prize;
He’ll run the race out, tho’ he heavily starts,
And distance the short winded wise.
Your fool is a saint in the temple of love,
And kneels all his life there to pray;
Your wit but looks in, and makes haste to remove,
‘Tis a stage he but takes in his way.