Through the green fern that there delights to grow. Once more permit me——Well, I know, you feel For suffering men, and would their sufferings heal, But when at certain huts you chose to call, At certain seasons, was compassion all? I there beheld thee, to the wretched dear 300 As angels to expiring saints appear When whispering hope—I saw an infant press’d And hush’d to slumber on my Emma’s breast! Hush’d be each rude suggestion!—Well I know, With a free hand your bounty you bestow, And to these objects frequent comforts send; But still they see not now their pitying friend. A merchant, Emma, when his wealth he states, Though rich, is faulty if he over-rates His real store; and, gaining greater trust 310 For the deception, should we deem him just? If in your singleness of heart you hide No flaw or frailty, when your truth is tried, And time has drawn aside the veil of love— We may be sorry, but we must approve; The fancied charms no more our praise compel, But doubly shines the worth that stands so well. _E._ O! precious are you all, and prizes too, Or could we take such guilty pains for you? Believe it not—As long as passion lasts, 320 A charm about the chosen maid it casts; And the poor girl has little more to do Than just to keep in sight as you pursue. Chance to a ruin leads her; you behold, And straight the angel of her taste is told; Chance to a cottage leads you, and you trace A virtuous pity in the angel’s face; She reads a work you chance to recommend, And likes it well—at least, she likes the friend; But, when it chances this no more is done, 330 She has not left one virtue—No! not one! But be it said, good sir, we use such art, Is it not done to hold a fickle heart, And fix a roving eye?—Is that design Shameful or wicked that would keep you mine? If I confess the art, I would proceed To say of such that every maid has need. Then, when you flatter—in your language, praise— In our own view you must our value raise; And must we not, to this mistaken man, 340 Appear as like his picture as we can? If you will call—nay, treat us as—divine, Must we not something to your thoughts incline? If men of sense will worship whom they love, Think you the idol will the error prove? What! show him all her glory is pretence, And make an idiot of this man of sense? Then, too, suppose we should his praise refuse, And clear his mind, we may our lover lose; In fact, you make us more than nature makes, 350 And we, no doubt, consent to your mistakes; You will, we know, until the frenzy cools, Enjoy the transient paradise of fools; But, fancy fled, you quit the blissful state, And truth for ever bars the golden gate. _H._ True! but how ill each other to upbraid, ’Tis not our fault that we no longer staid; No sudden fate our lingering love supprest;