That ray, at last, I hoped would never set,
My guide, my light, through, fortune's blackest shades:
It was my dear reserve, my secret treasure;
I stor'd it up, as misers hoard their gold,
Sure counterpoise for life's severest ills:
Vain was my hope; for love's soft sympathy,
He pays me back harsh words, unkind, reproof,
And looks that stab with coldness.
Adel. Oh, most cruel!
And, were he not my father, I could rail;