We often met, he dreading to be seen,
And much I question’d what such dread might mean;
Yet I believed him true; my simple heart
And undirected reason took his part.
“Can he who loves me, whom I love, deceive?
Can I such wrong of one so kind believe,
Who lives but in my smile, who trembles when I grieve?
“He dared not marry, but we met to prove
What sad encroachments and deceits has love:
Weak that I was, when he, rebuked, withdrew,