So quick they were—for Love is never slow—
So full, they ever seem’d to overflow.
Their hearts are ever fill’d with grief or joy,
And these to paint is every hour’s employ;
Joy they would not retain, and, for their grief,
To read such letters is a sure relief.
But, in due time, both joy and grief supprest,
They found their comfort in a little rest. 120
Mails went and came without the accustom’d freight,
For Love grew patient, and content to wait—