ELEGY XVIII - LOVE'S PROGRESS
Who ever loves, if he do not propose
The right true end of love, he's one that goes
To sea for nothing but to make him sick
Love is a bear-whelp born: if we overlick
Our love, and force it new strange shapes to take,
We err, and of a lump a monster make.
Were not a Calf a monster that were grown
Faced like a man, though better than his own ?
Perfection is in unity: prefer
One woman first, and then one thing in her.