Honour, that Guardian Angel, can alone
Give Life to Love, and fix him on his Throne:
Or if from Beauty Passion ever springs,
How short its Reign, how ready are its Wings!
Or if from Wit the trifling Flame is born,
Soon it expires, and grows our Reason's Scorn.
'Tis artless Tenderness, and Honour join'd,
Can only truimph o'er a noble Mind.
With these Hillarius leads my Soul along,
How soft the gentle Chain, and yet, O God, how strong!

If all mankind were plac'd before my Eyes,
The present, past and all that shall hereafter rise,
With noble Scorn I'd look whole Nations o'er,
And only fix on him I now adore.
All this is charming in his Face appears,
Sweet Wisdom in the Bloom of sprightly Years.
For Adoration every Feature made,
Oh! how they charm! oh! God, how thet persuade.
With awful Wonder I approach their Charms
With bending, trembling Knees, and longing Arms,
With Extacies that ne'er can be express'd,
But by my dying Eyes, where my fond Soul's confess'd.