Of dull Civility; the careless look
Of blank Indifference; the chilling frown
That freezes at the heart; the stony eye
Of fixt Disdain; or more tormenting gaze
Bent on another. These, with all the train
Of fears and jealousies that wait on Love,
Are no imagin’d griefs; no fancied ills
These; or, if fancied, worse than real woes
Such art thou, Love; then who, that once has known
Thy countless rocks and sands that lurk beneath,