Some to extinguish, others to prevent, A mad devotion to one dangerous Fair, Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipate The cares of Love amongst a hundred Brides. Th’ event is doubtful: for there are who find 375 A cure in this; there are who find it not. ’Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls The wound, to those who are sincerely sick. For while from feverish and tumultuous joys The nerves grow languid and the soul subsides; 380 The tender Fancy smarts with every sting; And what was Love before is Madness now. Is health your care, or luxury your aim, Be temperate still: When Nature bids obey; Her wild impatient sallies bear no curb. 385 But when the prurient habit of delight, Or loose Imagination, spurs you on To deeds above your strength, impute it not To Nature: Nature all compulsion hates. Ah! let nor luxury nor vain renown 390 Urge you to feats you well might sleep without; To make what should be rapture a fatigue, A tedious task; nor in the wanton arms Of twining Laïs melt your manhood down. For from the colliquation of soft joys 395 How chang’d you rise! the ghost of what you was! Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan; Your veins exhausted and your nerves unstrung. Spoil’d of its balm and sprightly zest, the blood Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves 400 (To each slight impulse tremblingly awake) A subtle Fiend that mimics all the plagues Rapid and restless springs from part to part. The blooming honours of your youth are fallen; Your vigour pines; your vital powers decay; 405 Diseases haunt you; and untimely Age Creeps on; unsocial, impotent, and lewd. Infatuate, impious, epicure! to waste The stores of pleasure, chearfulness, and health! Infatuate all who make delight their trade, 410 And coy perdition every hour pursue.