But while society I do prescribe,I mean not those of your own sighing tribe:For nothing sure can so injurious beTo one in love, as lovers company.There is a sort of dangerous infection in it; and, indeed, nothing is more certain, than that which is bad is more communicated to another than that which is good; which the poet justifies by similes, as he is wont to do. Juvenal speakes of this infection in the same sense that Ovid does.A patient, who my orders did obey,And to his cure was in a hopeful way,By keeping lovers' company one night,Relaps'd beyond my skill to set him right.Such dang'rous neighbourhood you must avoid:A flock's by one contagious sheep destroy'd.If health you'd keep shun those who are unsound;By looking on sore eyes, our own we wound;Dry lands are oft by neighb'ring rivers drown'd.Love's pest allows no safety but in flight;And the infected, to infect delight.Another, who quite through his course had gone,By living near his mistress was undone.Rashly his strength, ere well confirm'd, he tries,Too weak to stand th' encounter of her eyes.She meets, and conquers with one single view,And all his fresh-skin'd wounds gush forth anew.To save your house from neighb'ring fire is hard,Distance from danger is the surest guard.Avoid your mistress' walks, and e'en forbearThe civil offices you paid to her.Change all your measures, new affairs pursue;Find out, if possible, a world that's new.A table spread in view gives appetite;To see a gushing rill does thirst excite.To leap their females in a neighb'ring plain,Your bull will break his fence, your steed his rein.Nor is't enough to quit the nymph, but youMust to her friends and kindred bid adieu;Must renounce all sort ot commerce with every thing that belongs to her; which is one of the best remedies against so contagious a distemper, but hard to be put in practice.Nor to your sight admit the page or maid,By whom the tender billet doux's convey'd.And, though impatient, stifle your desire;Nor of her health, nor what she does enquire.E'en you who powerful reasons can assign,That 'twas ill-treatment made your love decline,Forbear complaints, and no invectives make;By scornful silence, best revenge you'll take.Bury your passion in a speechless grave,Desist from love, but do not say you have.If over much you boast, the symptom's ill;Who always cries, "I've done with love," loves still.To make sure work, quench leisurely the fire;He's safe, who can by just degrees retire.A torrent's swift, a stream does gently glide,But that's a short, and this a lasting tide;That love must irrecoverably decay,Which does by atoms waste itself away.