Catch, if you can, some notion of the dame, And let Matilda serve her for a name. Think next how Villars saw th’ enchanting maid, And how he loved, pursued, adored, obey’d— Obey’d in all, except the dire command, No more to dream of that bewitching hand. His love provoked her scorn, his wealth she spurn’d, And frowns for praise, contempt for prayer return’d; But, proud yet shrewd, the wily sex despise The would-be husband—yet the votary prize. 70 As Roman conquerors, of their triumph vain, Saw humbled monarchs in their pompous train, Who, when no more they swell’d the show of pride, In secret sorrow’d, or in silence died: So, when our friend adored the Beauty’s shrine, She mark’d the act, and gave the nod divine; And strove with scatter’d smiles, yet scarcely strove, To keep the lover, while she scorn’d his love. These, and his hope, the doubtful man sustain’d; For who that loves believes himself disdain’d?— 80 Each look, each motion, by his fondness read, Became Love’s food, and greater fondness bred; The pettiest favour was to him the sign, Of secret love, and said, “I’ll yet be thine!” One doleful year she held the captive swain, Who felt and cursed, and wore and bless’d, the chain; Who pass’d a thousand galling insults by, For one kind glance of that ambiguous eye. _P._ Well! time, perhaps, might to the coldest heart Some gentle thought of one so fond impart; 90 And pride itself has often favour shown To what it governs, and can call its own. _F._ Thus were they placed, when to the village came That lordly stranger, whom I need not name; Known since too well, but then as rich and young, Untried his prowess, and his crimes unsung. Smooth was his speech, and show’d a gentle mind, } Deaf to his praise, and to his merits blind, } But raised by woman’s smile, and pleased with all mankind. } At humble distance he this fair survey’d, 100 Read her high temper, yet adored the Maid; Far off he gazed, as if afraid to meet, Or show the hope her anger would defeat. Awful his love, and kept a guarded way, Afraid to venture, till it finds it may. And soon it found! nor could the Lady’s pride Her triumph bury, or her pleasure hide. And jealous Love, that ever looks to spy The dreaded wandering of a lady’s eye, Perceived with anguish, that the prize long sought 110 A sudden rival from his hopes had caught. Still Villars loved; at length, in strong despair, O’er-tortured passion thus preferr’d its prayer:— “Life of my life! at once my fate decree— I wait my death, or more than life, from thee. I have no arts, nor powers, thy soul to move, But doting constancy, and boundless love; This is my all: had I the world to give, Thine were its throne—now bid me die or live!” “Or die or live”—the gentle Lady cried— 120 “As suits thee best; that point thyself decide!