Classic Poem

What art thou, Love? whence are those charms?
—That thus thou bear'st an universal rule:
For thee the soldier quits his arms,
—The king turns slave, the wise man fool.

In vain we chase thee from the field,
—And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke:
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield,
—And all those high resolves are broke.

Can we e'er hope thou shouldst be true,
—Whom we have found so often base?
Cozened and cheated, still we view
—And fawn upon the treacherous face.

In vain our nature we accuse;
—And dote, because she says we must:
This for a brute were an excuse,
—Whose very soul and life is lust.

To get our likeness! what is that?
—Our likeness is but misery;
Why should I toil to propagate
—Another thing as vile as I?

From hands divine our spirits came,
—And gods, that made us, did inspire
Something more noble in our frame,
—Above the dregs of earthly fire.

What art thou, Love? whence are those charms?
—That thus thou bear'st an universal rule:
For thee the soldier quits his arms,
—The king turns slave, the wise man fool.

In vain we chase thee from the field,
—And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke:
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield,
—And all those high resolves are broke.

Can we e'er hope thou shouldst be true,
—Whom we have found so often base?
Cozened and cheated, still we view
—And fawn upon the treacherous face.

In vain our nature we accuse;
—And dote, because she says we must:
This for a brute were an excuse,
—Whose very soul and life is lust.

To get our likeness! what is that?
—Our likeness is but misery;
Why should I toil to propagate
—Another thing as vile as I?

From hands divine our spirits came,
—And gods, that made us, did inspire
Something more noble in our frame,
—Above the dregs of earthly fire.