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Hence, Cupid with your cheating Toies,
Your real Griefs, and painted Joies,
Your Pleasure which itself destroies.
Love like men in Feavers burn and rave,
And only what will injure them do crave,
Men's weakness makes Love so severe,
They give him power by their fear,
And make Shackles which they wear.
Who to another does his heart submit,
Makes his own Idols and then worships it.
Him whose heart is all his own,
Peace and liberty does crown,
He apprehends no killing frown.
He feels no raptures, which are joies diseas'd,
And is not much transported, but still pleas'd.