Her triumph bury, or her pleasure hide.
And jealous Love, that ever looks to spy
The dreaded wandering of a lady’s eye,
Perceived with anguish, that the prize long sought 110
A sudden rival from his hopes had caught.
Still Villars loved; at length, in strong despair,
O’er-tortured passion thus preferr’d its prayer:—
“Life of my life! at once my fate decree—
I wait my death, or more than life, from thee.
I have no arts, nor powers, thy soul to move,