Hadst thou but known the vast extent Of constant faith, how far 'Bove all that are Born slaves to Wealth, or Honour's vain ascent; 10 No richer treasure couldst thou find Than hearts with mutual chains combin'd. But Love is too despis'd a name, And must not hope to rise Above these ties; Honour and Wealth outshine his paler flame; These unite souls, whilst true desire Unpitied dies in its own fire. Yet, cruel fair one, I did aim With no less justice too, 20 Than those that sue For other hopes, and thy proud fortunes claim. Wealth honours, honours wealth approve, But Beauty's only meant for Love. [_Ambition._] ] [Line: 16 Miss Guiney thinks that the singular 'Honour', though in all texts, is obviously wrong. I should say that the plural would be more obviously wronger. The mistake, of course, comes from importing a modern distinction.] _Song._ When, dearest beauty, thou shalt pay Thy faith and my vain hope away To some dull soul that cannot know The worth of that thou dost bestow; Lest with my sighs and tears I might Disturb thy unconfin'd delight, To some dark shade I will retire, And there, forgot by all, expire. Thus, whilst the difference thou shalt prove Betwixt a feign'd and real love, 10 Whilst he, more happy, but less true, Shall reap those joys I did pursue, And with those pleasures crownéd be By Fate, which Love design'd for me, Then thou, perhaps, thyself wilt find Cruel too long, or too soon kind. [_Song._] Not one of Stanley's worst.] _The Revenge._ RONSARD. Fair Rebel to thyself and Time, Who laugh'st at all my tears, When thou hast lost thy youthful prime, And Age his trophy rears, Weighing thy inconsiderate pride Thou shalt in vain accuse it, Why beauty am I now denied, Or knew not then to use it? Then shall I wish, ungentle fair, Thou in like flames mayst burn; 10 Venus, if just, will hear my prayer, And I shall laugh my turn. [_The Revenge._] Not one of his best, even as a translation. The suspicion of _flatness_ which occurs too often in him could not be more fatal than in connexion with Ronsard's famous and beautiful sonnet. But Stanley has handicapped himself almost inconceivably. He has thrown away the half-sad, half-scornful burst of the opening 'Quand vous serez bien vieille'--the vivid picture of the crone half boasting, half regretting her love and her disdain, by the flicker of fire and candle, to the listening handmaiden, and the final touch as to the use of life. In fact I have sometimes wondered whether he really meant this masterpiece.] _Song._