What’s more delightful than young love disporting
In the commutual bond of first breathed sighs?
What is more lovely than the passion, courting
Such sweet succession of carnation dyes,
When love grows pale and red, yet knows not why,
And sorrow kisses joy and both are glad?
What fame, or wealth, or power, or all, can buy
Aught but compared to this looks sourly-sad?
’Tis a brief joy, yet all that mortals know;
Happy who even this, unmixed, can find,
Who will not doubt the substance in the show,
Nor ruffle pleasure with unquiet mind:
Sift but enjoyment with too strict a hand,
It mocks your fingers, and escapes to sand.