I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
A prince indebted is a fortune made.
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.