'TIS sad if Love should miss a heart, Yet sadder much to feel the smart, But who can Cupid's wounds endure, And have no prospect of a cure? We Lovers are not look'd upon For what our ancestors have done. Wit and good parts have slight regard, No Virtue can obtain reward. They ask what coin our purses hold, No object's like a heap of gold. But doubly be the wretch accurst Who taught us to esteem it first. This thirst of gold incites one brother To ruin or destroy another: Our fathers we for gold despise. Hence Envy, Strife, and Wars arise: And Gold's the bane, as I could prove, Of all that truly are in Love. |