This to the wond’ring lover strange and new, And false appear’d—he would not think it true. Still he pursued the lovely prize, and still Heard the cold words, design’d his hopes to kill; He felt dismay’d, as he perceived success Had inverse ratio, more obtaining less; 230 And still she grew more cool in her replies, And talk’d of age and improprieties. Then to his friends, although it hurt his pride, } And to the lady’s, he for aid applied; } Who kindly woo’d for him, but strongly were denied. } And now it was those fiercer passions rose, Urged by his love to murder his repose; Shame shook his soul to be deceived so long, And fierce revenge for such contemptuous wrong; Jealous he grew, and jealousy supplied 240} His mind with rage, unsooth’d, unsatisfied; } And grievous were the pangs of deeply wounded pride. } His generous soul had not the grief sustain’d, Had he not thought, “revenge may be obtain’d.” Camilla grieved, but grief was now too late; She hush’d her fears, and left th’ event to fate.— Four years elapsed, nor knew Sir Owen yet How to repay the meditated debt; The lovely foe was in her thirtieth year, Nor saw the favourite of the heart appear; 250 ’Tis sure, less sprightly the fair nymph became, And spoke of former levities with shame; But this, alas! was not in time confess’d, And vengeance waited in Sir Owen’s breast. But now the time arrives—the maid must feel And grieve for wounds that she refused to heal. Sir Owen, childless, in his love had rear’d A sister’s son; and now the youth appear’d In all the pride of manhood, and, beside, With all a soldier’s spirit and his pride; 260 Valiant and poor, with all that arms bestow, And wants that captains in their quarters know; Yet to his uncle’s generous heart was due The praise, that wants of any kind were few. When he appear’d, Sir Owen felt a joy Unknown before, his vengeance bless’d the boy— “To him I dare confide a cause so just; Love him she may—O! could I say, she must!” Thus fix’d, he more than usual kindness show’d, Nor let the captain name the debt he owed; 270 But when he spoke of gratitude, exclaim’d, “My dearest Morden! make me not ashamed; Each for a friend should do the best he can, The most obliged is the obliging man; But if you wish to give as well as take, You may a debtor of your uncle make.” Morden was earnest in his wish to know How he could best his grateful spirit show. Now the third dinner had their powers renew’d, And fruit and wine upon the table stood; 280 The fire brought comfort, and the warmth it lent A cheerful spirit to the feelings sent; When thus the uncle—“Morden, I depend On you for aid—assist me as a friend: Full well I know that you would much forego, And much endure, to wreak me on my foe. Charles, I am wrong’d, insulted—nay, be still,