Song: O, How Came Love, That Is Himself a Fire

O, how came Love, that is himself a fire,
To be so cold?
Yes, tyrant Money quencheth all desire,
Or makes it old.
But here are beauties will revive
Love's youth, and keep his heat alive:
As often as his torch here dies,
He need but light it at fresh eyes.
Joy, joy, the more: for in all courts,
If Love be cold, so are his sports.