ii6

One of those pretty, precious plagues, whichhaunt

A Lover with caprices soft and dear,

That like to make a quarrel, when they can’tFind one, each day of the delightful yearjBewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,And — what is worst of all — won't let you go :

LXIV.

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head,Or make a Werter of him in the end.

No wonder then a purer soul should dreadThis sort of chaste liaison for a friend;

It were much better to be wed or dead,

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend.'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,If that a K homie fortune* be really K bonne .*

LXY.

And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart,Which really knew or thought it knew noguile,