W. C. Scully - VII lyrics

Is Love, then, happiness? Ah, yes, the best! Is he not pain? Oh, bitter! Doth he smile? As smiles the morning? Doth he weep? Yea, lest His smile might lose its savour! Hath he guile? As hath the red rose that beguiles the bee! What doth his voice discourse of? Lo! herein Lieth Love's potency; his keen eyes see And smite upon each secret-hoarded sin, And then he saith: Whilst this with thee doth dwell, Must thou and I for ever be at strife, And in thine ear my tongue must hourly tell Dispraise, till thou dost cast it from thy life? And most he raileth at the darling vice That doth each soul so cunningly entice.