Perhaps it is not love, said I, br That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh; br Where wit and sense like hers agree, br One may be pleased, and yet be free. br br The beauties of her polish'd mind br It needs no lover's eye to find; br The hermit freezing in his cell br Might wish the gentle Flavia well. br br It is not love-averse to bear br The servile chain that lovers wear; br Let, let me all my fears remove, br My doubts dispel-it is not love. br br Oh! when did wit so brightly shine br In any form less fair than thine? br It is-it is love's subtle fire, br And under friendship lurks desire.