Those heaven-born blushes tell us man descends,
Even in the zenith of his earthly bliss:
Should Reason take her infidel repose, 490
This honest instinct speaks our lineage high;
This instinct calls on darkness to conceal
Our rapturous relation to the stalls.
Our glory covers us with noble shame,
And he that’s unconfounded, is unmann’d.
The man that blushes, is not quite a brute.
Thus far with thee, Lorenzo, will I close: