Celia, confess 'tis all in vain
To patch the ruins of thy face;
Nor of ill-natur'd time complain,
That robs it of each blooming grace.
If love no more shall bend his bow,
Nor point his arrows from thine eye,
If no lac'd fop, nor feathered beau,
Despairing at thy feet shall die.
Yet still, my charmer, wit like thine
Shall triumph over age and fate;
Thy setting beams with lustre shine,
And rival their meridian height.
Beauty, fair flower! soon fades away,
And transient are the joys of love;
But wit, and virtue ne'er decay,
Ador'd below, and bless'd above.
--_William Somerville_