Hence, vain intruder, haste away,
Wash not with thy unhallowed brine
The footsteps of my Celia’s shrine;
Nor on her purer altars lay
Thy empty words, accents that may
Some looser dame to love incline;
She must have offerings more divine;
Such pearly drops, as youthful may
Scatters before the rising day;
Such smooth soft language, as each line
Might stroke an angry god, or stay
Jove’s thunder, make the hearers pine
With envy; do this, thou shalt be
Servant to her, rival with me.
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