THE gods, O WALPOLE, give no bliss sincere:
Wealth is disturb'd by care, and pow'r by fear.
Of all the passions that employ the mind,
In gentle Love the sweetest joys we find;
Yet e'en those joys dire Jealousy molests,
And blackens each fair image in our breasts.
O may the warmth of thy too tender heart
Ne'er feel the sharpness of his venom'd dart;
For thy own quiet think thy mistress just,
And wisely take thy happiness on trust.