While virtue lends a zest to joy,
And bliss to rapture warms,
Our very tears she turns to smiles,
And every pang disarms.
But vice her foul circean cup
May medicate in vain:
E’en in her mirth some sorrow lurks,
In all her pleasures, pain.
Since this, with voice from heav’n, proclaims
That He that rules above,