Come, My Celia

Come, my Celia, let us prove,     While we may, how wise is love -     Love grown old and grey with years,     Love whose blood is thinned with tears.     Philosophic lover I,     Broke my heart, its love run dry,     And I warble passion's words     But to hear them sing like birds.     When the lightning struck my side,     Love shrieked and for ever died,     Leaving nought of him behind     But these playthings of the mind.     Now the real play is over     I can only act a lover,     Now the mimic play begins     With its puppet joys and sins.     When the heart no longer feels,     And the blood with caution steals,     Then, ah! then - my heart, forgive! -     Then we dare begin to live.     Dipped in Stygian waves of pain,     We can never feel again;     Time may hurl his deadliest darts,     Love may practise all his arts;     Like some Balder, lo! we stand     Safe 'mid hurtling spear and brand,     Only Death - ah! sweet Death, throw! -     Holds the fatal mistletoe.     Let the young unconquered soul     Love the unit as the whole,     Let the young uncheated eye     Love the face fore-doomed to die:     But, my Celia, not for us     Pleasures half so hazardous;     Let us set our hearts on play,     'Tis, alas! the only way -     Make of life the jest it is,     Laugh and fool and (maybe!) kiss,     Never for a moment, dear,     Love so well to risk a fear.     Is not this, my Celia, say,     The only wise - and weary - way?