Thomas Stanley (1625–1678)

THOUGH when I lov’d thee thou wert fair,

Thou art no longer so:

Those glories do the pride they wear

Unto opinion owe.

Beauties, like stars, in borrow’d lustre shine:

And ’twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye

Do now with mine expire;

Thy brightest graces fade and die

At once, with my desire.

Love’s fires thus mutual influence return:

Thine cease to shine when mine to burn.

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more

To be implor’d or woo’d,

Since by thy scorn thou dost restore

The wealth my love bestow’d;

And thy despis’d disdain too late shall find

That none are fair but who are kind.