I Love to Madness, rave t'enjoy,
But heaps of Wealth my Progress bar;
Curse on the Load that stops my way,
My Love's more Rich and Brighter far:
Were I prest under Hills of Gold,
My furious Sighs should make my escape;
I'd sigh and blow up all the Mould,
And throw the Oar in Cælia's Lap.
Were thou some Peasant mean and small,
And all the spacious Globe were mine;