Where shall Celia fly for shelter, In what secret grove or cave? Sighs and sonnets sent to melt her From the young, the gay, the brave, Tho' with prudish airs she starch her, Still she longs, and still she burns; Cupid shoots like Hayman's archer, Wheresoe'r the damsel turns. Virtue, wit, good sense, and beauty, If discretion guide us not, Sometimes are the ruffian's booty, Sometimes are the booby's lot: Now they're purchas'd by the trader, Now commanded by the peer; Now some subtle mean invader Wins the heart, or gains the ear. O discretion, thou'rt a jewel, Or our grandmammas mistake; Stinting flame by baiting fewel, Always careful and awake! Wou'd you keep your pearls from tramplers, Weigh the license, weigh the banns: Mark my song upon your samplers, Wear it on your knots and fans. |