In earnest, or to stir me to distrust,
He flutter’d like her fan at Edith’s beck,
Her silence fill’d with subtlest flattery,
Her vacant hours invaded with himself;
Till all my life, at last, appear’d a plot
To steal upon his absence, and then pluck
Love’s fruit which once his presence only brought.
XXXIII.
And so, henceforth, I less could welcome him.
How could I do it,—with his views of her,