Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.
Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing.
We come to know best what men are, in their worse jeopardizes.
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.
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?