me behoves
    To act discreetly, for he burns, not loves! 
    Who hopes and fears, ill plays discretion’s part! 
    He must not in my face detect my heart;’
    ’Twas this, which, as a rein the generous horse,
    Slack’d your hot haste, and shaped your proper course. 
    Often, while Love my struggling heart consumed,
    Has anger tinged my cheek, my eyes illumed,
    For Love in me could reason ne’er subdue;
    But ever if I saw you sorrow-spent,
    Instant my fondest looks on you were bent,
    Myself from shame, from death redeeming you;
    Or, if the flame of passion blazed too high,
    My greeting changed, with short speech and cold eye
    My sorrow moved you or my terror shook. 
    That these the arts I used, the way I took,
    Smiles varying scorn as sunshine follows rain,
    You know, and well have sung in many a deathless strain
    Again and oft, as saw I sunk in grief
    Those tearful eyes, I said, ’Without relief,
    Surely and swift he marches to his grave,’
    And, at the thought, the fitting help I gave.’ 
    But if I saw you wild and passion spurr’d,
    Prompt with the curb, your boldness I deterr’d;
    Thus cold and kind, pale, blushing, gloomy, gay,
    Safe have I led you through the dangerous way,
    And, as my labour, great my joy at last.” 
    Trembling, I answer’d, and my tears flow’d fast,
    “Lady, could I the blessed thought believe,
    My faithful love would full reward receive.” 
    “O man of little faith!”—­her fairest cheek,
    E’en as she spoke, a warm blush ’gan to streak—­
    “Why should I say it, were it less than true? 
    If you on earth were pleasant in my view
    I need not ask; enough it pleased to see
    The best love of that true heart fix’d on me;
    Well too your genius pleased me, and the fame
    Which, far and wide, it shower’d upon my name;
    Your Love had blame in its excess alone,
    And wanted prudence; while you sought to tell,
    By act and air, what long I knew and well,
    To the whole world your secret heart was shown;
    Thence was the coldness which your hopes distress’d,
    For such our sympathy in all the rest,
    As is alone where Love keeps honour’s law. 
    Since in your bosom first its birth I saw,
    One fire our heart has equally inflamed,
    Except that I conceal’d it, you proclaim’d;
    And louder as your cry for mercy swell’d,
    Terror and shame my silence more compell’d,
    That men my great desire should little think;
    But ah! concealment makes not sorrow less,
    Complaint embitters not the mind’s distress,
    Feeling with fiction cannot swell and shrink,
    But surely then at least the veil was raised,
    You only present when your verse I praised,
    And whispering sang, ‘Love dares not more to say.’