John Dryden (1631–1700)

YOU charmed me not with that fair face,

Though it was all divine:

To be another’s is the grace

That makes me wish you mine.

The gods and fortune take their part

Who, like young monarchs, fight,

And boldly dare invade that heart

Which is another’s right.

First, mad with hope, we undertake

To pull up every bar;

But, once possessed, we faintly make

A dull defensive war.

Now, every friend is turned a foe,

In hope to get our store:

And passion makes us cowards grow,

Which made us brave before.