The Mistake

I heard a young lover in terrible pain,
From whence if he pleas'd, he might soon be releas'd,
He swore, and he vow'd again and again,
He could not outlive the turmoils of his breast;
But, alas, the young lover I found
Knew little how cold Love would prove under ground;
Why should I believe, prithee, Love, tell me why,
Where my own flesh and blood must give me the lie!
Let 'em rant while they will, and their destinies brave,
They'll find their flames vanish on this side the grave;
For though all addresses on purpose are made
To be huddled to bed,--'tisn't meant, with a spade!