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 Yet, 'tis but children curse that wheel above,

Which just as helpless as a man doth move,—

Yea! hath less mind and motion of its own—

About the business of the heavenly love.

Nor are those sightless stars a whit more wise,

Impotent silver dots upon the dice

The lords of heaven each night and morning throw,

In some tremendous hazard of the skies.

Nay! think no more, but grip the slender waist

Of her whose kisses leave no bitter taste,

Reason's a hag, and love a painted jade,—

Come, daughter of the vine, dear and disgraced.

'Tis a wild wife, but sweet, my saintly brother,

Nor in this sour world know I such another;

Sweet but forbidden—yet who would not prefer

The wanton daughter to the lawful mother?