Recount her virtues, and, with partial eyes,
Admire in her what others would despise.
A sad delirium sure has seiz’d thy brain,
Which makes thee fancy what the poets feign,
Of love, and such like vain fantastic whims,
’Tis wild chimera all, and idle dreams.
DAMON.
And dost thou doubt of such a thing as love?
If once thy breast, like mine, the smart should prove,
More than is painted by the poet’s art,