Sad as death at dead of night,
The fair complaining Celia sat,
But one poor lamp was all her light,
While thus she reason'd with her fate:
Why should man such triumphs gain,
And purchase joys that give us pain?
Ah! What glory can ensue,
A helpless virgin to undo?'

Curse the night then, curse the hour
When first he drew thee to his arms,
When virtue was betray'd by power,
And yielded to unlawful charms
When love approach'd with all his fires,
Arm'd with hopes and strong desires,
Sighs and tears, and ev'ry wile
With which the men the maids beguile.'