To the Mutable Fair

Here, Cælia! for thy sake I partWith all that grew so near my heart;The passion that I had for thee,The faith, the love, the constancy!And, that I may successful prove,Transform myself to what you love.

Fool that I was! so much to prizeThose simple virtues you despise;Fool! that with such dull arrows strove,Or hoped to reach a flying dove;For you, that are in motion still,Decline our force, and mock our skill;Who, like Don Quixote, do advanceAgainst a windmill our vain lance.

Now will I wander through the air,Mount, make a stoop at every fair;And, with a fancy unconfined(As lawless as the sea or wind),Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly,And with your various thoughts comply.

The formal stars do travel so,As we their names and courses know;And he that on their changes looks,Would think them govern'd by our books;But never were the clouds reducedTo any art; the motions usedBy those free vapours are so light,So frequent, that the conquer'd sightDespairs to find the rules that guideThose gilded shadows as they slide;And therefore of the spacious air,Jove's royal consort had the care;And by that power did once escape,Declining bold Ixion's rape;She with her own resemblance gracedA shining cloud, which he embraced.

Such was that image, so it smiledWith seeming kindness which beguiledYour Thyrsis lately, when he thoughtHe had his fleeting Cælia caught.'Twas shaped like her, but, for the fair,He fill'd his arms with yielding air.

A fate for which he grieves the less,Because the gods had like success;For in their story one, we see,Pursues a nymph, and takes a tree;A second, with a lover's haste,Soon overtakes whom he had chased,But she that did a virgin seem,Possess'd, appears a wand'ring stream;For his supposed love, a thirdLays greedy hold upon a bird,And stands amazed to find his dearA wild inhabitant of the air.

To these old tales such nymphs as youGive credit, and still make them new;The am'rous now like wonders findIn the swift changes of your mind.

But, Cælia, if you apprehendThe Muse of your incensèd friend,Nor would that he record your blame,And make it live, repeat the same;Again deceive him, and again,And then he swears he'll not complain;For still to be deluded so,Is all the pleasure lovers know;Who, like good falc'ners, take delight,Not in the quarry, but the flight.