Ah, how sweet it is to love,
Ah, how gay is young desire!
And what pleasing pains, we prove
when we first approach Love's fire!
Pains of Love are sweeter far than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from Lovers blown
Do but gently heave the Heart:
Ev'n the tears they shed alone
Cure, like trickling Balm, their smart.
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easie death.
Love and Time with reverence use,
Treat 'em like a parting friend:
Nor the golden gifts refuse
Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.
Love, like Spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein:
But each Tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again.
If a flow in Age appear,
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
John Dryden |
|