“My child,” the teacher said, “who feels remorse,
(And feels not he?) must wish relief of course:
And can he find it, while he fears the crime! —
You must be married; will you name the time?”
Glad was the patron as a man could be,
Yet marvell’d too, to find his guides agree;
“But what the cause?” he cried; “’tis genuine love for me.”
Each found his part, and let one act describe
The powers and honours of th’ accordant tribe: —
A man for favour to the mansion speeds,
And cons his threefold task as he proceeds;
To teacher Wisp he bows with humble air,
And begs his interest for a barn’s repair:
Then for the Doctor he inquires, who loves
To hear applause for what his skill improves,
And gives for praise, assent—and to the Fair
He brings of pullets a delicious pair;
Thus sees a peasant, with discernment nice,
A love of power, conceit, and avarice.
Lo! now the change complete: the convert Gwyn
Has sold his books, and has renounced his sin;
Mollet his body orders, Wisp his soul,
And o’er his purse the Lady takes control;
No friends beside he needs, and none attend —
Soul, body, and estate, has each a friend;
And fair Rebecca leads a virtuous life —
She rules a mistress, and she reigns a wife.
I have been to you ever true and humble.
Shakespeare, Henry VIII.
When I did first impart my love to you,
I freely told you all the wealth I had.
Merchant of Venice.
The fatal time
Cuts off all ceremonies and vows of love,
And ample interchange of sweet discourse,
Which so long sunder’d friends should dwell upon.
I know thee not, old man; fall to thy prayers.
Thou pure impiety, thou impious purity,
For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love.
Much Ado about Nothing.
Love will expire—the gay, the happy dream
Will turn to scorn, indiff’rence, or esteem:
Some favour’d pairs, in this exchange, are blest,
Nor sigh for raptures in a state of rest;
Others, ill match’d, with minds unpair’d, repent
At once the deed, and know no more content;
From joy to anguish they, in haste, decline,
And, with their fondness, their esteem resign;
More luckless still their fate, who are the prey
Of long-protracted hope and dull delay:
’Mid plans of bliss the heavy hours pass on,
Till love is withered, and till joy is gone.