From me, my Dear, O seek not to receive
What e'en deep-read Experience cannot give.
We may, indeed, from the Physician's skill
Some Med'cine find to cure the body's ill.
But who e'er found the physic for the soul,
Or made th' affections bend to his controul?
When thro' the blaze of passion objects show
How dark 's the shade! how bright the colours glow!
All the rous'd soul with transport's overcome,
And the mind's surly Monitor is dumb.
In vain the sages turn their volumes o'er,
And on the musty page incessant pore,
Still mighty Love triumphant rules the heart,
Baffles their labour, and eludes their art.
Say what is science, what is reason's force
To stop the passions wild ungovern'd course?
Reason, 'tis true, may point the rocky shore,
And shew the danger, but can serve no more,
From wave to wave the wretched wreck is tost,
And reason 's in th' impetuous torrent lost.
In vain we strive, when urg'd by cold neglect,
By various means our freedom to effect,
Tho' like the bee from sweet to sweet we rove,
And search for ease in the vast sound of Love,
Tho' in each Nymph we meet a kind return,
Still in the firstfond hopeless flame we burn,
That dear idea still our thoughts employs,
And blest variety itself e'en cloys.
So exiles banish'd from their native home
Are met with pity wheresoe'er they come,
Yet still their native soil employs their care,
And death were ease to lay their ashes there.
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