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Oh tyrant Love! hast thou possest
The prudent, learn'd and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
Love, soft iutruder, enters here,
But ent'ring learns to be sincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost those blame desire,
Which Nature has imprest?
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?
Love's purer flame the Gods approve;
The Gods and Brutus bend to love :
Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust,
A vapour fed from wild desire,
A wand'ring self-consuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite:
And burn for ever one;
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the sun.
Oh source of ev'ry social tye,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend?
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
Or views his smiling progeny;
What tender passions take their turns,
What home felt raptures move ?
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.
Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmizes, Hence false tears, deceits, disguises, Dangers, doubts, delays, surprizes ;
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine: Purest love's unwasting treasure, Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure Days of ease, and nights of pleasure; Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
When on thy bosom I recline,
Enraptur'd still to call thee mine,
To call thee mine for life;
I glory in the sacred ties,
Which modern wits and fools despise, Of Husband and of Wife.
One mutual flame inspires our bliss :—
The tender look, the melting kiss
Ev'n years have not destroy'd;
Some sweet sensation ever new
Springs up, and proves the maxim true,
That love can ne'er be cloy'd,
Have I a wish? 'tis al! for thee;
Hast thou a wish? 'tis all for me:
So soft our moments move,
That angels look with ardent gaze,
Well pleas'd to see our happy days,
And bid us live-and love.
If cares arise (and cares will come),
Thy bosom is my softest home,
I lall me there to rest;
And is there ought disturbs my Fair?
I bid her sigh out all her care,
And lose it in my breast.
Round Love's elysian bowers,
The softest prospects rise,
There bloom the sweetest flowers,
There shine the purest skies;
And joy and rapture gild awhile,
The radiant heaven of Beauty's smile.
Round Love's deserted bowers,
Tremendous rocks arise,
Cold mildew blights the flowers,
Tornadoes rend the skies;
And Pleasure's waning moon goes down,
Amid the night of Beauty's frown.
Then youth, thou fond believer!
The wily syren shun,
Who trusts the sweet deceiver,
Will surely be undone!
When Beauty triumphs, ah beware!
Her smile is Hope, her frown Despair!
Far from the throbbing bosom haste, Ye doubts and fears that lay it waste; Dear anxious days of pleasing pain Fly, never to return again.
But, ah! return ye smiling hours,
By careless fancy crown'd with flowers;
Come fairy joys, and wishes gay,
And dance in sportive rounds away.
So shall the moments gaily glide
O'er varying life's tumultuous tide;
Nor sad regrets disturb their course,
To calm oblivion's peaceful source.