To Beauty give your heart, your sighs,
No other offering will she prize;
As Truth should unadorn’d appear
Behold! the God is naked here.
Like Innocence, he has no arms
But those of sweet, of native charms;
No wish or power has he to fly,
Like thy pure spirit, Constancy!
Such in the golden age was Love!
But now, oh! whither does he rove! J. C.