‘“You, with your looks and catching air, To think of Vaughan! You fool! You know, You might, with ordinary care, Ev’n yet be Lady Clitheroe. You’re sure he’ll do great things some day! Nonsense, he won’t; he’s dress’d too well. Dines with the Sterling Club, they say; Not commonly respectable! Half Puritan, half Cavalier! His curly hair I think’s a wig; And, for his fortune, why my Dear, ’Tis not enough to keep a gig. Rich Aunts and Uncles never die; And what you bring won’t do for dress: And so you’ll live on By-and-by, Within oaten-cake and water-cress!” 4 ‘I cried, but did not let her see. At last she soften’d her dispraise, On learning you had bought for me A carriage and a pair of bays. But here she comes! You take her in To dinner. I impose this task Make her approve my love; and win What thanks from me you choose to ask!’ 5 ‘My niece has told you every word I said of you! What may I mean? Of course she has; but you’ve not heard How I abused you to the Dean;— Yes, I’ll take wine; he’s mad, like her; And she _will_ have you: there it ends! And, now I’ve done my duty, Sir, And you’ve shown common-sense, we’re friends!’ 6 ‘Go, child, and see him out yourself,’ Aunt Maude said, after tea, ‘and show The place, upon that upper shelf, Where Petrarch stands, lent long ago.’ 7 ‘These rose-leaves to my heart be press’d, Honoria, while it aches for you!’ (The rose in ruin, from her breast, Fell, as I took a fond adieu.) ‘You must go now, Love!’ ‘See, the air Is thick with starlight!’ ‘Let me tie This scarf on. Oh, your Petrarch! There! I’m coming, Aunt!’ ‘Sweet, Sweet!’ ‘Good-bye!’ ‘Ah, Love, to me ’tis death to part, Yet you, my sever’d life, smile on!’ These “Good-nights,” Felix, break my heart; I’m only gay till you are gone!’ With love’s bright arrows from her eyes, And balm on her permissive lips, She pass’d, and night was a surprise, As when the sun at Quito dips. Her beauties were like sunlit snows, Flush’d but not warm’d with my desire. Oh, how I loved her! Fiercely glows In the pure air of frost the fire. Who for a year is sure of fate! I thought, dishearten’d as I went, Wroth with the Dean, who bade me wait, And vex’d with her, who seem’d content. Nay, could eternal life afford That tyranny should thus deduct From this fair land, which call’d me lord, A year of the sweet usufruct? It might not and it should not be! I’d go back now, and he must own, At once, my love’s compulsive plea. I turn’d, I found the Dean alone. ‘Nonsense, my friend; go back to bed! It’s half-past twelve!’ ‘July, then, Sir!’ ‘Well, come to-morrow,’ at last he said, ‘And you may talk of it with her.’