Your bounty is beyond my speaking; But though my mouth be dumb, my heart shall thank you.

Is she not more than painting can express,/ Or youthful poets fancy when they love?

As if Misfortune made the throne her seat,/ And none could be unhappy but the great.

As if Misfortune made the Throne her Seat, And none could be unhappy but the Great.

When our old Pleasures die, Some new One still is nigh; Oh! fair Variety!

Guilt is the source of sorrow, 'tis the fiend, Th' avenging fiend, that follows us behind, With whips and stings

From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks, Ten thousand little loves and graces spring To revel in the roses.

Guilt is the source of sorrows, the avenging fiend that follows us behind with whips and stings.