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HAIL, Muse! et cetera.—We left Juan sleeping,
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping,
Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah why
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,
And place them on their breast—but place to die—
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
In her first passion woman loves her lover,
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her:
I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ;
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs
Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, But those who have ne'er end with only one.
"Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign
Of human frailty, folly, also crime,
That love and marriage rarely can combine,
There's something of antipathy, as 'twere,
A kind of flattery that's hardly fair
Is used until the truth arrives too late
Yet what can people do, except despair?
The same things change their names at such a rate;
For instance-passion in a lover's glorious,
But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.
Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;
But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:
That both are tied till one shall have expired.