SONG, (Cease, anxious world, your fruitless pain)

Cease, anxious world, your fruitless pain, To grasp forbidden store; Your study'd labours shall prove vain, Your alchemy unblest; Whilst seeds of far more precious ore Are ripen'd in my breast:

My breast, the forge of happier love, Where my Lucinda lives; And the rich stock does so improve, As she her art employs, That every smile and touch she gives Turns all to golden joys.

Since thence we can such treasures raise, Let's no expence refuse; In love let's lay out all our days; How can we e'er be poor, When every blessing that we use Begets a thousand more?