Classic Poem

O how came Love, that is himself a fire,
To be so cold!
Yes, tyran' money quencheth all desire,
Or makes it old.
But here are beauties will revive
Love's youth and keep his heat alive:
As often as his torch here dies,
He needs but light it at fresh eyes.
Joy, joy the more; for in all courts
If Love be cold, so are his sports.
(from Love Restored)