Who, pleased in their deceit, contented pass.
Such once was mine, who thought there was none fair,
None witty, modest, virtuous but She;
Yet now I find the Glass abusèd me.
XVII.
Adieu, fond Love! the Mother of all Error!
Replete with hope and fear, with joy and pain.
False fire of Fancy! full of care and terror.
Shadow of pleasures fleeting, short, and vain!
Die, loathèd Love! Receive thy latest doom!