How worthless is the Glory
Of being fam'd in Story,
For mighty Battles won!
The World within his Pow'r,
Could not prolong one Hour
The Life of Philip's Son.

Insipid is the Pleasure
Of hoarding Gold and Treasure,
Which can't our Pains repay:
Not India's Mines can buy Us
Content, with Peace supply Us,
Or banish Cares away.

But happy past expressing,
Commanding every Blessing
A Mortal can attain,
Is He that loves sincerely
Some gentle Fair One dearly,
And is belov'd again.

Whom blooming Beauty blesses,
A boundless Wealth possesses,
With Joy and Glory crown'd:
There's no such thing as Pleasure,
There's no such thing as Treasure,
But what in Love is found.