Great Love, I yield; send no more darts in vain,
I am already fond of my soft chain;
Proud of my fetters, so pleased with my state,
That I the very thought of Freedom hate.
O mighty Love! thy art and power join,
To make his frozen breast as warm as mine;
But if thou try’st, and canst not make him kind,
In Love such pleasant, real sweets I find,
That, though attended with despair it be,
’Tis better still than a wild liberty.