Begone fond Love, make haste away,
Duty, not thee, our Souls must sway:
Can thy Almighty Pow'rs
Find out no other Hearts,
To Shoot thy Fatal Darts,
But hapless Ours,
Who cannot, though we would, Obey?
What secret Pow'r is it, Controls
The Empire thou pretend'st o'er Souls?
That still thy shafts are lost,
And still thou Shoot'st in vain,
For they that feel most Pain,
By Duty're Crossed,
Or else unjustly meet Disdain.
Fondly Men say, the World doth move
By Love's Command; for simple Love,
Alas! is Subject unto Fate:
Oh Love! Assert thy Pow'r,
And make the Dotards,(1) in an hour
Our Faces hate,
And the young Knights like Swans(2) or Turtles(3) prove.