But one dear object, and you lived for me;
And now, sir, what your pleasure? Let me dress,
Sing, speak, or write, and you your sense express
Of my poor taste—my words are not correct; }
In all I do is failing or defect— }
Some error you will seek, some blunder will detect; }
And what can such dissatisfaction prove? 150
I tell you, Henry, you have ceased to love.
H. I own it not; but if a truth it be,
It is the fault of nature, not of me.