And who in time knows whither we may vent the treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores this gain of our best glories shall be sent, 't unknowing Nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident may come refined with the accents that are ours?
Love is a sickness full of woes, / All remedies refusing; / A plant that with most cutting grows, / Most barren with best using. / Why so? / More we enjoy it, more it dies; / If not enjoyed, it sighing cries, / Hey ho.