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The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
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To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
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Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
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A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
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Then die that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee;
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