So wheels the heart round passion's
Their blindness, madness still the same,
Alike in pangs they both expire.
Where'er the treacherous taper burns
Thither the headlong insect turns;
And fearless fluttering near it still
Regardless of all pain or ill,
Until the warmth that round it plays
Attracts it nearer to the blaze,
Expiring there, at last it learns
Though bright the flame, it scathes, it burns.
So round the torch that Love hath lit,
Mad as the moth, the heart will flit—
On giddy wing it wildly wheels,
Th' enlivening glow its spirit feels;
And then it fondly fancies this
Must be what minstrels picture bliss,
Until into the fire it flies
And then, too late lamenting, dies!