Lust is, of all the frailties of our nature, / What most we ought to fear; the headstrong beast / Rushes along, impatient of the course; / Nor hears the rider’s call, nor fears the rein.
The string that jars / When rudely touch’d, ungrateful to the sense, / With pleasure feels the master’s flying fingers, / Swells into harmony and charms the hearers.
