Come my Celia, let us prove, <br />While wee may, the sports of love; <br />Time will not be ours, for'ever: <br />He, at length, our good will fever. <br />Spend not then his gifts in vaine. <br />Sunnes, that set, may rise againe: <br />But, if once wee lose this light, <br />'Tis, with us, perpetuall night. <br />Why should we deferre our joyes? <br />Fame, and rumor are but toyes. <br />Cannot wee delude the eyes <br />Of a few poore houshold spyes? <br />Or his easier eares beguile, <br />So removed by our wile? <br />'Tis no sinne, loves fruit to steale, <br />But the sweet theft to reveale: <br />To bee taken, to be seene, <br />These have crimes accounted beene.<br /><br />Ben Jonson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/v-song-to-celia/
