To Celia

AS in those Nations where they yet adore
Marble and Cedar, and their aid implore,
'Tis not the Workman, nor the precious Wood,
But 'tis the Worshipper that makes the God:
So, cruel Fair, though Heaven has giv'n thee all
We Mortals (Virtue, or can Beauty) call,
Tis we that give the Thunder to your frowns,
Darts to your Eyes, and to our selves the wounds.
Without our Love, which proudly you deride,
Vain were your Beauty, and more vain your Pride▪
All envy'd beings that the world can shew,
Still to some meaner thing their greatness ow;
Subjects make Kings, and we (the numerous Train
Of humble Lovers) constitute thy Reign.
This difference only Beauties Realm may boast;
Where most it favours, it enslaves the most
And they to whom it is indulgent found,
Are ever in the rudest fetters bound.
What Tyrant yet, but thee, was ever known,
Cruel to those that serv'd to make him one.
Valour's a Vice, if not with Honour joyn'd,
And Beauty a Disease, when 'tis not kind.