But, fancy fled, you quit the blissful state,
And truth for ever bars the golden gate.
H. True! but how ill each other to upbraid,
’Tis not our fault that we no longer staid;
No sudden fate our lingering love supprest;
It died an easy death, and calmly sank to rest.
To either sex is the delusion lent; 360}
And, when it fails us, we should rest content; }
’Tis cruel to reproach, when bootless to repent. }
E. Then wise the lovers who consent to wait,