Why we love, and why we hate,
Is not granted us to know:
Random chance, or wilful fate,
Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.
If on me Zelinda frown,
Madness 'tis in me to grieve:
Since her will is not her own,
Why should I uneasy live?
If I for Zelinda die,
Deaf to poor Mizella's cries,
Ask not me the reason why:
Seek the riddle in the skies.
Ambrose Philips.