George Etherege

To a Lady Asking Him How Long He Would Love Her

IT is not, Celia, in our power 
      To say how long our love will last; 
It may be we within this hour 
      May lose those joys we now do taste;
The Blessèd, that immortal be,         
From change in love are only free. 
 
Then since we mortal lovers are, 
      Ask not how long our love will last;
But while it does, let us take care 
      Each minute be with pleasure past:  
Were it not madness to deny
To live because we’re sure to die?