What is this Love? This Source of Human--Woe?
This being mad, and chusing to be so?
This Gall of Life? This Fever of the Soul?
This Flame which burns beneath the frozen Pole?
This Bane of Joy? This general Disease,
Which in all Climes, and on all Ranks, doth seize?
This fatal Pill, whose gilding tempts the Eye,
But swallow'd down brings Care and Misery?

Its Pains are all the Torments of Despair;
Its Joys scarce known, and fleeting as the Air;
Smiles are its Food, Fruition all its Aim,
A poor insipid Joy, scarce worthy of a Name.