Celia's Complaint, for the loss of her Virginity.  
She by fair words was quickly won,  
Amintas proved Unkind;  
And Celia says, she's quite Undone,  
Much troubled in her mind.  
To the Tune of, Philander  
 woman  
 man  

DEath quickly come away,  
and ease me of my pain,  
The longer here I stay,  
my Life I must disdain:  
Such deadly smart doth pierce my heart,  
no mortal can endure,  
Then let me die,  
For certainly,  
I ne'er shall find a Cure.   

Amintas he is gone;  
I am forsaken quite,  
He was the only Man,  
in whom I took delight:  
My Life to me, is Misery,  
since he is so unkind,  
He's from me fled,  
And I half Dead,  
poor soul, am left behind.   

I Languish now in Grief  
by Night, and eke by Day,  
I can find no Relief,  
but hourly waste away:  
Was ever Lass, at this strange pass,  
or Wounded like to me;  
Come quickly Death,  
To stop my Breath,  
and end my Misery.   

I, wish I ne'er had seen  
those eyes that me betrayed,  
Then surely had I been,  
a matehiess happy Maid:  
Deluding Tongue, thou didst me wrong,  
as well as his fair eyes;  
And Conquered all,  
I had a fall,  
and ne'er again shall rise.   
 man and woman  
 woman  

MY spotless Virgin's Fort,  
thou strongly didst assault,  
My Favour thou didst Court,  
and this was my great fault:  
So soon to yield, to thee the Field,  
which did my Honour stain;  
And now I cry,  
Continually,  
poor Celia Loved in vain.   

You Damsels all beware,  
take warning now by me,  
And let not Speeches fair,  
betray your Honesty:  
For I, poor I, assuredly,  
by them too soon was won:  
In discontent,  
I now Lament,  
alas, I'm quite undone.   

Ten thousand Sighs and Sobs,  
part with ev'ry day,  
I feel such pangs and Throbs,  
and so Consume away:  
That with desire, I burn like fire,  
to be within thy Grave:  
Which to obtain,  
Would be my gain,  
that's all I now would have.   

False Youngmen now give o'er,  
and cease for to betray,  
Deceive poor Maids no more,  
who hardly can say nay:  
But quickly how, and make a vow,  
to Love you evermore:  
Then them you leave,  
To mourn and grieve,  
which grieves their hearts full sore.   

But 'tis a dreadful thing,  
that you should use them so,  
Which to their hearts will bring  
such Sorrow, Grief, and Woe:  
That often times, maids in their primes,  
they do themselves destroy:  
Because they find,  
Their Love's unkind,  
and cannot them enjoy.   

Then dally so no more,  
with Maidens that are kind,  
For Blessings in great store,  
the Honest man shall find:  
But he that doth fly from the Truth,  
of what he did protest:  
Shall met with be,  
Assuredly  
believe me 'tis no jest.    

Printed for Charles Passenger, at the Seven Stars on London-Bridge.