The ardour chills us which we do not share

Kind souls, you wonder why, love you, When you, you wonder why, love none. We love, Fool, for the good we do, Not that which unto us is done!

Strong passions mean weak will, and he Who truly knows the strength and bliss Which are in love, will own with me No passion but a virtue 'tis.

How amiable and innocent Her pleasure in her power to charm!

Ah, wasteful woman, she who may On her sweet self set her own price, Knowing man cannot choose but pay, How has she cheapen'd paradise; How given for nought her priceless gift, How spoil'd the bread and spill'd the wine,

Grant me the power of saying things Too simple and too sweet for words!

Love wakes men, once a lifetime each; They lift their heavy lids, and look; And, lo, what one sweet page can teach, They read with joy, then shut the book.