John Dryden (1631–1700)

AH, how sweet it is to love!

Ah, how gay is young Desire!

And what pleasing pains we prove

When we first approach Love’s fire!

Pains of love be sweeter far

Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown

Do but gently heave the heart:

Ev’n the tears they shed alone

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart;

Lovers, when they lose their breath,

Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use,

Treat them like a parting friend;

Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send:

For each year their price is more,

And they less simple than before.

Love like spring-tides full and high,

Swells in every youthful vein;

But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again:

If a flow in age appear,

’Tis but rain, and runs not clear.