Now do I hold in hope what I have heard, That love will sometimes cunning masks put on, Speak with strange tongues, and wear odd liveries, Transform himself to seemings most unlike, And still be love in fearful opposites. So may it be, but my immediate fear Jostles that hope aside, and I remember Of what my tutor AEtion did forewarn me. Oh fond old man! if thou didst know me here, Thou wouldst move heaven and earth to have me home. Much was his care of my uncaring youth, And, with a reverend and considerate wit, He curbed the frolic of my pupilage, Less by the bridle, than the feeding it With stories ending in moralities, With applications and similitudes Tacked to the merest leaf I looked upon, Till, so it was, we two did love each other, The sage and child, with mutual amity. Oft, hand in hand, we passed my father's gate, At evening, when the horizontal day Chequered his farewell on the western wall; Shying the court, where, for the frolic lords, Under the profaned silence of the rose, The syrinx, and the stringed sonorous shell, Governed the twinkling heeled Terpischore. We softly went and turned towards the bay, And found another world, contemplative Of shells and pebbles by the ocean shore. I do remember, once, on such an eve, Pacing the polished margin of the deep, We found two weeds that had embraced each other, And talked of friendship, love and sympathy. _My pupil sweet,_ said he, _beware of Love: For thou wilt shortly be besieged by him, From the four winds of heaven, because thou art Daughter of Minos, and already married To expectation of a royal dower. But O beware! for, listen what I say, By strong presentments I have moved thy father Bating a fair and well intending nay, To leave thy love to thine unmuffled eye. This is rare scope, my girl, O use it rarely, Be slow and nice in thy sweet liberty, And let discretion honor thee in choice. For love is like a cup with dregs at bottom! Hand it with care, and pleasant it shall be-- Snatch it, and thou may'st find its bitterness._ And now, my soon, my all sufficient lord, How shall I answer old Sir Oracle? It is too true that I have snatched my love, And taste already of its bitterness. But trifle not with love, my sportful Theseus. Affection, when it bears an outward eye, Be it of love, or social amity, Or open-lidded general charity, Becomes a holy universal thing-- The beauty of the soul, which, therein lodged, Surpasses every outward comeliness-- Makes fanes of shaggy shapes, and, of the fair, Such presences as fill the gates of heaven. Why is the dog, that knows no stint of heart, But roars a welcome like an untamed bear, And leaps a dirty-footed fierce caress, More valued than the sleek smooth mannered cat,