_E._ O! sir, I must not think that heaven approves 230 Ungrateful man or unrequited loves; Nor that we less are fitted for our parts By having tender souls and feeling hearts. _H._ Come, my dear friend, and let us not refuse The good we have, by grief for that we lose; But let us both the very truth confess; This must relieve the ill, and may redress. _E._ O! much I fear! I practised no deceit; Such as I am I saw you at my feet; If for a goddess you a girl would take, 240 ’Tis you yourself the disappointment make. _H._ And I alone?—O! Emma, when I pray’d For grace from thee, transported and afraid, Now raised to rapture, now to terror doom’d— Was not the goddess by the girl assumed? Did not my Emma use her skill to hide— Let us be frank—her weakness and her pride? Did she not all her sex’s arts pursue, To bring the angel forward to my view? Was not the rising anger oft suppress’d? 250 Was not the waking passion hush’d to rest? And, when so mildly sweet you look’d and spoke, Did not the woman deign to wear a cloak? A cloak she wore, or, though not clear my sight, I might have seen her—Think you not I might? _E._ O! this is glorious!—while your passion lives, To the loved maid a robe of grace it gives; And then, unjust! beholds her with surprise, Unrobed, ungracious, when the passion dies. _H._ For this, my Emma, I to Heaven appeal, 260 I felt entirely what I seem’d to feel; Thou wert all precious in my sight, to me The being angels are supposed to be; And am I now of my deception told, Because I’m doom’d a woman to behold? _E._ Sir! in few words I would a question ask— Mean these reproaches that I wore a mask? Mean you that I by art or caution tried To show a virtue, or a fault to hide? _H._ I will obey you—When you seem’d to feel 270 Those books we read, and praised them with such zeal, Approving all that certain friends approved, Was it the pages, or the praise you loved? Nay, do not frown—I much rejoiced to find Such early judgment in such gentle mind; But, since we married, have you deign’d to look On the grave subjects of one favourite book? Or have the once-applauded pages power T’ engage their warm approver for an hour? Nay, hear me further—When we view’d that dell, 280 Where lie those ruins—you must know it well— When that worn pediment your walk delay’d, And the stream gushing through the arch decay’d; When at the venerable pile you stood, Till the does ventured on our solitude, We were so still! before the growing day Call’d us reluctant from our seat away— Tell me, was all the feeling you express’d The genuine feeling of my Emma’s breast? Or was it borrow’d, that her faithful slave 290 The higher notion of her taste might have? So may I judge, for of that lovely scene The married Emma has no witness been; No more beheld that water, falling, flow