While Celia's Tears make sorrow bright,
Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes;
The Sun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the Ocean first did rise:
And thus thro' Mists we see the Sun,
Which else we dust not gaze upon.
These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one Cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blasting lightning burst away.
The Stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our Doom in drawing nigh.
The Baby in that sunny Sphere
So like a Phaeton appears,
That Heaven, the threaten'd World to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears;
Else might th' ambitious Nymph aspire,
To set, like him, Heaven too on fire.