Yet was not dead, nor yet afraid to die;
For, though he wrote not, Richard wonder’d why.
He could not justly tell how letters pass’d,
But, as to him appear’d, he wrote the last;
In this he meant not to accuse the maid—
Love, in some cases, ceases to upbraid.
Yet not indifferent was our Lover grown,
Although the ardour of the flame was flown; 130
He still of Phœbe thought, her lip, her smile—
But grew contented with his fate the while.