Here Caelia for thy sake I part
With all that grew so near my heart;
The passion that I had for thee,
The Faith, the Love, the Constancy,
And that I may successful prove
Transform my self to what you love.
Fool that I was so much to prize
Those simple virtues you despise,
Fool that with such dull Arrows strove,
Or hop'd to reach a flying Dove;
For you that are in motion still
Decline our force, and mock our skill.
Who like Don Quixot do advance
Against a Wind-mill our vain Launce.
Now will I wander through the Air,
Mount, make a stoop at every fair,
And with a Fancy unconfin'd
(As lawless as the Sea or Wind)
Pursue you wheresoe'r you fly,
And with your various thoughts comply.
The formal Stars do travel so,
As we their names and courses know,
And he that on their changes looks,
Would think them govern'd by our Books.
But never were the clouds reduc'd
To any Art; the motions us'd
By those free vapors are so light,
So frequent, that the conquer'd sight
Despairs to find the rules that guide
Those gilded shadows as they slide.
And therefore of the spacious Air
Joves royal consort had the care:
And by that power did once escape,
Declining bold Ixions rape;
She with her own resemblance grac'd
A shining cloud which he embrac'd.
Such was that Image, so it smil'd
With seeming kindness which beguil'd
Your Thirsis lately when he thought
He had his fleeting Caelia caught.
'Twas shap'd like her, but for the fair
He fill'd his Arms with yielding Air:
A fate for which he grieves the less,
Because the gods had like success.
For in their story one (we see)
Pursues a Nymph, and takes a Tree:
A second with a Lovers haste
Soon overtakes whom he had chac'd;
But she that did a Virgin seem,
Possest appears a wandring stream:
For his supposed love a third
Lays greedy hold upon a bird;
And stands amaz'd to find his dear,
A wild Inhabitant of the air.
To these old tales such Nymphs as you
Give credit, and still make them new,
The Am'rous now like wonders find
In the swift changes of your mind.
But Caelia if you apprehend
The Muse of your incensed friend;
Nor would that he record your blame,
And make it live, repeat the same,
Again deceive him, and again,
And then he swears he'll not complain.
For still to be deluded so,
Is all the pleasure Lovers know,
Who, (like good Faulkners) take delight,
Not in the quarrey, but the flight.