All other ills tho' sharp they prove,
Serve to refine and sweeten Love;
In absence or unkind disdain,
Sweet hope relieves the Lovers pain:
But oh! no cure but death we find,
To set us free from Jealousy,
Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! &c.
False in thy Glass all objects are,
Some set too near, and some too far;
Thou art the fire of endless Night,