To Celia

NOT, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest;

For I would change each hour, like them,

Were not my heart at rest.

But I am tied to very thee

By every thought I have:

Thy face I only care to see,

Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is adored

In thy dear self I find—

For the whole sex can but afford

The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store,

And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more,

’T is easy to be true.