Mere love, the common commerce of the earth,
Is little in its uses; scarcely won,
Ere o'ercloyed taste is sickened and undone
By what it craved for at its eager birth.
So the gorged infant turns in heedless mirth,
Back from the bosom it has fed upon,
And plays with motes which flicker in the sun,
Scorning the breast that filled its selfish dearth.
Thus may the fawning heifer of the grove
Her horned lord an equal love impart,
Nor more degrade the majesty of love.
Ah! in a mummery of wretched art,
Of rites obscene, we erring mortals move,
And make a pagan of the blinded heart.