For, when my father clasps my hand in his,
That's cold, and I can feel it hard and wrinkled;
But when you grasp it, then I sigh and pant,
And something smarts and tickles at my heart.
Arth. Oh artless love, where the soul moves the tongue,
And only nature speaks what nature thinks!—
Had she but eyes!
Em. Just now you said, I had:
I see them, I have two.