The Match
Nature had long a treasure made,
Of all her choicest store,
Fearing, when she should be decayed,
To beg in vain for more.
Her orientest colours there,
And essences most pure,
With sweetest perfumes hoarded were,
All, as she thought, secure,
She seldom them unlocked or used
But with the nicest care;
For, with one grain of them diffused,
She could the world repair.
But likeness soon together drew,
What she did separate lay;
Of which one perfect beauty grew,
And that was Celia.
Love wisely had of long foreseen
That he must once grow old,
And therefore stored a magazine
To save him from the cold.
He kept the several cells replete
With nitre thrice refined,
The naphtha’s and the sulphur’s heat,
And all that burns the mind.
He fortified the double gate,
And rarely thither came;
For, with one spark of these, he straight
All nature could inflame.
Till, by vicinity so long,
A nearer way they sought,
And, grown magnetically strong,
Into each other wrought.
Thus all his fuel did unite
To make one fire high:
None ever burned so hot, so bright:
And, Celia, that am I.
So we alone the happy rest,
Whilst all the world is poor,
And have within ourselves possessed
All love's and nature’s store.