To her Lovers Complaint. A SONG

IF you complain your Flames are hot,
'Tis 'cause they are impure,
For strongest Spirits scorch us not,
Their Flames we can endure.

Love, like Zeal, shou'd be divine,
And ardent as the same;
Like Stars, which in cold Weather shine,
Or like a Lambent Flame.

It shou'd be like the Morning Rays,
Which quickens, but not burns;
Or th' innocence of Childrens plays,
Or Lamps in Antient Urns.