Till some unlucky thrusts rouse up their rage,
Pretence is gone, in earnest they engage.
Those whom she sung, the muse reluctant sees
Differ for causes trivial as these;
And full of anguish, sighing and alone,
Pours out her deep-felt melancholy moan:—
“Where dwelt their mutual fondness in that hour
When love took leave, and kindness now no more?
Alas! no more, in social converse join’d,
Shall they partake the rapture of the mind?