Jup. O think not that! for you are ever new:
Your fruits of love are like eternal spring,
In happy climes, where some are in the bud,
Some green, and ripening some, while others fall.
Alcm. Ay, now you tell me this,
When roused desires, and fresh recruits of force,
Enable languished love to take the field:
But never hope to be received again;
You would again deny you were received,
And brand my spotless fame.