Song (Love)

Oh love! that stronger art than Wine,

Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine,

Wont to be priz'd above all Wealth,

Disease that has more Joys than Health;

Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain,

And of Tyranny complain,

We are all better'd by thy Reign.

What Reason never can bestow,

We to this useful Passion owe:

Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,

And learns a Clown the Art to please:

Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold,

Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold;

And teaches airy Fops to think.

When full brute Appetite is fed,

And choakd the Glutton lies and dead;

Thou new Spirits dost dispense,

And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense.

Virtue's unconquerable Aid

That against Nature can persuade;

And makes a roving Mind retire

Within the Bounds of just Desire.

Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest,

And half the Heaven of the blest!