Year after year! Ah yes, the very same
That made our young bureaucrat blaze in rhyme!
So it is Love’s young bliss that will not brave
The voyage over vaulted Ocean’s wave,
But asks a sacrifice when, like the sun,
Its face should fill with glory, making one!
Ah no, you vulgar prophets of the Lie,
Give things the names we ought to know them by;
Call widows’ passion—wanting what they miss,
And wedlock’s habit—call it what it is!