As breathless, from my dumb excess of joy,
As you with hasty travel? Do you think
Of our sweet meetings ’neath the gloomy yews
Of Sopewell nunnery, when the happy day
That made me yours seemed lingering as it came,
More slowly moving as it nearer drew?
How you chid time, and vowed the hoary knave
Might mark each second of his horologe
With dying groans, from those you cherished most,
So he would hasten?—