When at the venerable pile you stood,
Till the does ventured on our solitude,
We were so still! before the growing day
Call’d us reluctant from our seat away—
Tell me, was all the feeling you express’d
The genuine feeling of my Emma’s breast?
Or was it borrow’d, that her faithful slave 290
The higher notion of her taste might have?
So may I judge, for of that lovely scene
The married Emma has no witness been;