IMpatient with Desire, at last
I ventur'd to lay Forms aside:
'Twas I was modest, not she chaste;
Celia, so gently press'd, comply'd.

With idle Awe, an amorous Fool,
I gaz'd upon her Eyes with Fear;
Say, Love, how came your Slave so dull
To read no better there?

Thus to our selves the greatest Foes,
Altho' the Nymph be well enclin'd,
For want of Courage to propose,
By our own Folly she's unkind.