Tell me not, of joys in love,
I, who all its changes prove,
I, who all its load sustain,
Swear, by Jove,
The bliss is poison'd by the pain.
What tho' panting in your arms,
The virgin yield her blushing charms;
What tho' from her swimming eye,
Heavens raptures fly,
And magic heat each vein alarms;
What tho' from the soft embrace,
Sparks electric, fire the soul,
Mount from the bosom, to the face,
And as they roll,
All thoughts of mortal care efface;
Yet tell me not, of joys in love,
I, who all its changes prove;
I, who all its load sustain,
Swear, by Jove,
The pleasur's poison'd by the pain.