Not, Celia, that I juster am,
Or better than the rest;
For I would change each hour like them
Were not my heart at rest.
But I am tied to very thee,
By every thought I have;
Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.
All that in woman is ador'd
In thy dear self I find;
For the whole sex can but afford
The handsome and the kind.
Why then should I seek farther store
And still make love anew?
When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.