What is our Bliss, that changeth with the Moon;
And Day of Life, that darkens e'er 'tis Noon?
What is true Passion, if unblest it dies?
And where is  Joy, if  flies?
If Love, alas! be Pain; the Pain I bear,
No Thought can figure, and no Tongue declare.
Ne'er faithful Woman felt, nor false one feign'd
The Flames, which long have in my Bosom reign'd:
The God of Love himself inhabits there,
With all his Rage, and Dread, and Grief, and Care,
His Complement of Stores, and total War.