XXXVII.
Love gain’d is love unlovely, joy ne’er seeth’d
But in desire, still with possession cloy’d;
If that the vows whose once perfection breath’d,
Could hide with words the margin of their void,
Then Love were hope, fulfilment, peace, combined,
Into a concord of unearthly bliss;
Then were the roses of enjoyment twined
Around the satire on young Love’s first kiss:
But Love says, no, and Nature too denies;
For Rapture rises but by woe’s decline:
And too much bliss, with a brief respite, dies
By coldness, that shall make love dimlier shine.
All love betrays man past its paltry base,
He mounts his bubble, soars, and falls apace.