William Walsh (1663–1708)

GO, little book, and to the world impart

The faithful image of an amorous heart:

Those who love’s dear, deluding pains have known

May in my fatal stories read their own.

Those who have lived from all its torments free,

May find the thing they never felt, from me.

Perhaps, advised, avoid the gilded bait,

And, warned by my example, shun my fate.

While with calm joy, safe landed on the coast,

I view the waves on which I once was tost.

Love is a medley of endearments, jars,

Suspicions, quarrels, reconcilements, wars;

Then peace again. Oh! would it not be best

To chase the fatal passion from our breast?

But, since so few can live from passion free,

Happy the man, and only happy he,

Who with such lucky stars begins his love,

That his cool judgment does his choice approve.

Ill-grounded passions quickly wear away;

What’s built upon esteem can ne’er decay.