How soon thy Joys, are past?
Since we soon must lose the Pleasure,
Oh! 'twere better ne'er to tast:
Gods! How sweet would be possessing,
Did not Time its Charms destroy;
Or could Lovers with the Blessing,
Lose the Thoughts of Cupid's Joy:
Lose the Thoughts, the Thoughts,
The Thoughts of Cupid's Joy.
Cruel Thoughts, that pain yet please me,