But know no joy, unless the World stands by.
The fool of vanity, for her alone
He lives, loves, writes, and dies but to be known.
His widow’d mourner flies to poison’s aid,
Eager to join her Louvet’s parted shade
In those bright realms where sainted lovers stray,
But harsh emetics tear that hope away.[[317]]
280
Yet hapless Louvet! where thy bones are laid,
The easy nymphs shall consecrate the shade.[[318]]