To thee our vows we pay; to thee belong
The hymn of praise and honorary song,
Source of each wish, each pleasure, and each hope,
Till kinder suns the rose of Passion ope;
A rose without a thorn, that buds and blows,
And takes the name of friendship as it grows;
Virtue’s own zephyrs on her bosom play,
An heaven-born flower, unconscious of decay.
Then whether in Cythera’s suns you rove,
Or seek the coolness of the Cyprian grove,