The Conscious Lovers
They may be false who Languish and Complain,
But they who part with Money never feign.
To hope for perfect Happiness is vain,
And Love has ever its Allays of Pain.
Truth is too simple, of all Art bereav'd,
Since the World will — why, let it be deceiv'd.
W HATE'ER the generous Mind it self denies,
The secret Care of Providence supplies.
But they who part with Money never feign.
To hope for perfect Happiness is vain,
And Love has ever its Allays of Pain.
Truth is too simple, of all Art bereav'd,
Since the World will — why, let it be deceiv'd.
W HATE'ER the generous Mind it self denies,
The secret Care of Providence supplies.
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