Th’ event is doubtful: for there are who find 375
A cure in this; there are who find it not.
’Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls
The wound, to those who are sincerely sick.
For while from feverish and tumultuous joys
The nerves grow languid and the soul subsides; 380
The tender Fancy smarts with every sting;
And what was Love before is Madness now.
Is health your care, or luxury your aim,
Be temperate still: When Nature bids obey;