LOVE.
TO Love, is to be doom’d, in Life, to feel
What after Death the Tortur’d meet in Hell.
The Vulture dipping in Prometheus' Side
His bloody Beak, with his torn Liver dy’d,
Is Love: The Stone that labours up the Hill,
Mocking the Lab’rer’s Toil, returning still,
Is Love: Those Streams where Tantalus is curst
To sit, and never drink, with endless Thirst,
Those loaden Boughs that with their Burthen bend
To court his Taste, and yet escape his Hand,
All this is Love, that to dissembled Joys
Invites vain Men, with real Griefs destroys.
The Progress of Beauty.
The God of Day, descending from above,
Mixt with the Sea, and got the Queen of Love:
Beauty, that fires the World, ’twas fit should rise
From him alone, who lights the Stars and Skies.
In Cyprus long, by Men and Gods obey’d,
The Lover’s Toil she gratefully repaid;
