How pure yet true the epitaph:
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That what Love gives it takes away;
It is a momentary truth,
When youthful voices cease to laugh
And mighty passions turn to prey,
When dreams refuse us rest, nor soothe.
Ah! How goes your assertation?
To see, to touch, to hold and kiss,
That love may conquer, not divide,
My joys held false administration,
That fit of temper I'll not miss,
To true amour it not abide?
But land your fortress on the ground,
Remove those blinds which lead astray;
Those dreams are foolish, look about:
Birds leave their young in infant sound,
Gentle cubs on some plain decay,
Remind me not of Paris tout.
It is your love, not mine, that's false,
And on the verge of end of day,
For that which pleases suits remorse,
And all that buds but fades away.