Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing.
Flattery, the dangerous nurse of vice.
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born; Relive my languish, and restore the light.
Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.
Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.
And who in time knows whither we may vent the treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores this gain of our best glories shall be sent, 't unknowing Nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident may come refined with the accents that are ours?