It warms up this fount of life,
And sends life's fluid here and there;
And nerves and brain, in gladsome strife,
Forget their dull and dark despair.

And what is love, if 'tis not wine,
Refin'd, distill'd from grossness, tho',
More potent than the juice of vine,
And bringing greater joy, and woe?

Does it not, too, refresh, revive,
And oft intoxicate the brain,
And make the being all alive
With keenest joy, or keenest pain?

And does it not when much indulg'd,
Or held by slack and yielding hand,
Lead on to woes oft undivulg'd,
To crimes unknown, throughout the land?

Oh! blessed woman, fruitful vine,
Inspiring and enchanting twain,
I pray that neither love nor wine,
May o'er my will, resistless reign.

They tell us, that the safest way
To 'scape from wine or woman's thrall,
Is to go on from day to day,
And never drink, or love, at all.