Of toil you say a moderate share
In each pursuit should rise,
Too much may make our hearts despair,
Too little we despise:
In every common case I own
The justness of the thought,
A fly may be too quickly won,
The world too dearly bought.
Not so in Love; his charms depend
Upon himself alone,
No foreign circumstance can lend
A lustre to his throne:
Though gain'd without one care, his joys
High-valued must remain,
Are cheaply purchas'd when the prize
Of Industry and care.
More verses by Henry James Pye
- Verses Sent To The Corps Of Wantage
- Ode On The Divine Omnipresence
- The Ninth Olympic Ode Of Pindar
- Two Fragments Of Pindar’s Threni,
- The War-Elegies Of Tyrtæus, Imitated: Elegy Iii.