Permit thy friend this secret to reveal,
Which thy own heart perhaps would better tell;
The point to which our sweetest passions move;
Is to be truly lov'd, and fondly love.
This is the charm that sooths the troubled breast,
Friend to our health, and author of our rest,
Bids every gloomy vexing passion fly,
And tunes each jarring string to harmony.
Ev'n while I write; the name of Love inspires
More pleasing thoughts, and more enliv'ning fires;
Beneath his pow'r my raptur'd fancy glows,
And ev'ry tender verse more sweetly flows.
Dull is the privilege of living free;
Our hearts were never form'd for Liberty:
Some beauteous image well imprinted there,
Can best defend them from consuming care.
In vain to groves and gardens we retire,
And nature in her rural works admire;
Tho' grateful these, yet these but faintly charm,
They may Delight us, but can never Warm.
May some fair eyes, my friend, thy bosom fire
With pleasing pangs of ever gay desire;
And teach thee that soft science, which alone
Still to thy searching mind rests slightly known.
Thy soul, though great, is tender and refin'd,
To friendship sensible, to love inclin'd;
And therefore long thou canst not arm thy breast
Against the entrance of so sweet a guest.
Hear what th' inspiring Muses bid me tell,
For Heav'n shall ratify what they reveal.