Though small the fount where they begin,
They form—'tis thought in many a sonnet—
A flood to drown our sense of sin;
But oh! Love's ark still floats upon it.
Then give me tears—oh! hide not one;
The best affections are but flowers,
That faint beneath the fervid sun,
And languish once a day for showers.
Yet peril lurks in every gem—
For tears are worse than swords in slaughter: