Where lies the fault? even in this, replies

The voice of Wisdom; thrifty Nature lends

Rude sketches, undeveloped, which thy sighs,

Thy fancy, thought, or lonely pride pretends

To draw to their full scope; oft must thou err,

Even though successful, nature will not stir.

{34}

{34}

XXXIV.

What’s more delightful than young love disporting

In the commutual bond of first breathed sighs?

What is more lovely than the passion, courting

Such sweet succession of carnation dyes,

When love grows pale and red, yet knows not why,

And sorrow kisses joy and both are glad?

What fame, or wealth, or power, or all, can buy

Aught but compared to this looks sourly-sad?

’Tis a brief joy, yet all that mortals know;

Happy who even this, unmixed, can find,

Who will not doubt the substance in the show,

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