Classic Poem

Our Bargain for two thousand Kisses made,
A thousand I receiv'd, a thousand payd:
The Number I confess thou hast supply'd,
But Love with Number is not satisfy'd.
None praise the Harvest who can count their Ears,
Or sum the Blades of Grass the Meadow wears;
Who for a hundred Clusters Bacchus fees?
Or sues to Pales for a thousand Bees?
When pious Jove waters the thirsty Plain,
We number not the drops of falling Rain;
Or when the troubled Air with Tempests quakes,
And he displeas'd, in hand his fear'd Arms takes,
At random on the Earth he scatters Hail,
And Fruit or Corn securely doth assail:
Or good or bad, Heavens Gifts exceed all Sum;
A Majesty that doth Joves House become.
 Wilt thou dear Goddess then (more bright then she
Who in a Shell sail'd through the smiling Sea)
Kisses, thy heavenly Gifts, strictly confine
To number, yet to count my Sighs decline?
Or sum the Drops whose inexhausted Spring
Flows from my Eyes, my pale Cheeks furrowing?
If thou wilt reckon, reckon both together;
If both thou number not, ah, number neither.
Give me (to ease the Pain my griev'd Soul bears)
Numberless Kisses, for unnumbred Tears.