Cease, anxious world, your fruitless pain,
To grasp forbidden store;
Your studied labours shall prove vain,
Your Alchemy unblest,
While 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 ev'ry smile and touch she gives
Turns all to golden joys.

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