A cloak she wore, or, though not clear my sight,
I might have seen her—Think you not I might?
E. O! this is glorious!—while your passion lives,
To the loved maid a robe of grace it gives;
And then, unjust! beholds her with surprise,
Unrobed, ungracious, when the passion dies.
H. For this, my Emma, I to Heaven appeal, 260
I felt entirely what I seem’d to feel;
Thou wert all precious in my sight, to me
The being angels are supposed to be;