Silvia, Luke-warm

Now, while I languish on your gentle Breast,
(That Pillow where my Cares are hush't to rest)
While our plump veins are full of youthful fire,
And nature able to make good desire;
Why, at this Season, in Love's choicest prime,
Shou'd you believe, that I indulge a crime
To urge enjoyment? which you rather ought
To think th' effect of Passion, than a fault:
Think, dearest Charmer, how the Minutes fly,
And the preventing spite of Destiny;
Our vig'rous days, alas! will soon be gone,
And Impotence and Age come swiftly on;
Let us not then thus wast the pretious time,
'Tis that, O Silvia, that's the greatest crime,
For as that fails, as that consumes away,
Who knows too but our Passions may decay?
Enjoyment will preserve the Flame entire,
For that's the fuel that maintains the Fire,
That's Love indeed, the rest is but desire;
That is the Oyl that makes the Colours last,
While Paints in Fresco fret away and wast:
For pity then change your half-yielding mind,
To be but kind in part is much unkind;
Luke-warm Indifferency I cannot bear,
Such tedious Hopes are worse than quick Despair.