Light burst upon him, yet he fancied gloom,
Nor came a twinkling from Matilda’s room.—
What then? ’tis idle to expect that all
Should be produced at jealous fancy’s call;
How! the park-gate wide open! who would dare 370
Do this, if her presiding glance were there?
But yet, by chance—I know not what to think,
For thought is hell, and I’m upon the brink!
Not for a thousand worlds, ten thousand lives,
Would I——Oh! what depends upon our wives!