Chorus

Vaine man, borne to noe happinesse,
but by the title of distresse,
Alli'de to a Capacitie
of Joye, only by missery;
whose pleasures are but remidies,
and best delights but the supplies
of what hee wantes, who hath noe sence
but poverty and indigence:
Is itt not paine still to desire
and carry in our breast this fyer?
is it not deadnesse to have none,
and satisfyed, are wee not stone?
Doeth not our Cheifest Blisse then lie
Betwixt thirst and satiety,
in the midd way? which is alone
in an halfe satisfaction:
and is not Love the midle way,
att which, with most delight wee stay?
desire is totall indigence,
But Love is ever a mixt sence
of what wee have, and what wee want,
and though it bee a little scant
of satisfaction, yet wee rest
in such an halfe possession best.
A halfe possession doeth supply
the pleasure of variety,
and Frees us from inconstancy
by want causd, or satiety;
Hee never lov'd, who doeth confesse
he wanted all he doeth possesse,
(Love to itt selfe is recompence
besides the pleasure of the sence)
And he againe, who doeth pretend
that surfeited his Love tooke end,
Confesses in his Loves decay
his soule more mortall, then that clay
which carries itt, for if his mynd
bee in it's purest part confind,
(for such Love is) and lymited,
tis in the rest, dying, or dead:
they passe their tymes in Dreames of Love
whom wavering passions gently move,
through a Calme smooth-fac'd sea they passe,
but in the haven trafique glasse:
they who love truly through the clyme
of freesing North and scalding lyne,
Sayle to their joyes, and have deepe sence
both of the losse, and recompense:
yet strength of passion doeth not prove
Infallibly, the trueth of love,
Shipps, which to day a storme did find,
are since becalm'd, and feele no wind.
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