Love’s but the frailty of the mind

Love's but the frailty of the mind

When 'tis not with ambition joined;

A sickly flame, which, if not fed, expires,

And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires.

'Tis not to wound a wanton boy

Or amorous youth, that gives the joy;

But 'tis the glory to have pierced a swain,

For whom inferior beauties sighed in vain.

Then I alone the conquest prize

When I insult a rival's eyes;

If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see

That heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.