I long to talk with some old lover's
Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he,
who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
this god produced a destiny,
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,
must love her that loves not me.
Sure, they which made him god, meant
not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practised it.
But when an even
flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Only his subject was; it cannot be
Love, till I
love her, who loves me.
But every modern god will now
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to,
All is the purlieu of the god of love.
O ! were we waken'd by
To ungod this child again, it could not be
I should love her,
who loves not me.
Rebel and atheist too, why murmur
As though I felt the worst that love could do?
Love might make me leave
loving, or might try
A deeper plague, to make her love me too;
since she loves before, I'm loth to see.
Falsehood is worse than hate; and
that must be,
If she whom I love, should love me.
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