That William loved, mamma, with easy smile,
Would jesting say; but love might grow the while;
The damsel’s self, with unassuming pride,
With love so led by fear was gratified.
What cause for censure? Could a man reprove
A child for fondness, or miscall it love?
Not William’s self; yet well inform’d was he,
That love it was, and endless love would be.
Month after month the sweet delusion bred 120
Wild, feverish hopes, that flourish’d, and then fled,