Reed.... Single Blessedness.
But earlier is the rose distilled,
Than that which withering on the virgin thorn
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Shakspeare.
Love not, love not; the thing you love may change;
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, and not for you.
Mrs. Norton.
Alone! alone! how drear it is always to be alone!
In such a depth of wilderness, the only thinking one!
The waters in their path rejoice, the trees together sleep—
But I have not one silver voice upon my ear to creep!
Willis.
Do any thing but love; or, if thou lovest,
And art a woman, hide thy love from him
Whom thou dost worship. Never let him know
How dear he is; flit like a bird before him;
Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower;
But be not won; or thou wilt, like that bird,
When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected,
And perish in forgetfulness.
O many a summer’s morning glow
Has lent the rose its ray,
And many a winter’s drifting snow
Has swept its bloom away;
But she has kept the faithless pledge
To this, her winter hour,
And keeps it still, herself alone,
And wasted like the flower.