O Love! how cold and slow to take my part,Thou idle wanderer about my heart!Why thy old faithful soldier wilt thou seeOppress'd in thy own tents? they murder me;Thy flames consume, thy arrows pierce thy friends;Rather on foes pursue more noble ends.Achilles' sword would certainly bestowA cure as certain as it gave the blow.Hunters, who follow flying game, give o'erWhen the prey's caught, hope still leads on before;We, thine own slaves, feel thy tyrannic blows.While thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy foes.On men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove ?And I was long ago disarm'd by love.Millions of dull men live, and scornful maids;We'll own love valiant when he these invades.Rome from each corner of the wide world snatch'dA laurel, or't had been to this day thatch'd;But the old soldier has his resting-place,And the good batter'd horse is turn'd to grass: