Nature had long a Treasure
Of all her choisest store;
Fearing, when She should be decay'd,
To beg in vain for more.
Her Orientest Colours there,
And Essences most pure,
With sweetest Perfumes hoarded were,
All as she thought secure.
She seldom them unlock'd, or us'd,
But with the nicest care;
For, with one grain of them diffus'd,
She could the World repair.
But likeness soon together
What she did separate lay;
Of which one perfect Beauty grew,
And that was Celia.
Love wisely had of long
That he must once grow old;
And therefore stor'd a Magazine,
To save him from the cold.
He kept the several Cells
With Nitre thrice refin'd;
The Naphta's and the Sulphurs heat,
And all that burns the Mind.
He fortifi'd the double Gate,
And rarely thither came,
For, with one Spark of these, he
All Nature could inflame.
Till, by vicinity so long,
A nearer Way they sought;
And, grown magnetically strong,
Into each other wrought.
Thus all his fewel did
To make one fire high:
None ever burn'd so hot, so bright:
And Celia that am I.
So we alone the happy rest,
Whilst all the World is poor,
And have within our Selves
All Love's and Nature's store.
