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And whispering, "I will ne'er consent," consented.

There is a tide in the affairs of women Which, taken at the flood, leads--God knows where.

Some are soon bagg'd but some reject three dozen. 'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals And wild dismay, o'er every angry cousin who begin accusals, Such as--"Unless Miss meant to have chosen Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray, Look yes least night, and yet say No to-day?"

'Tis enough-- Who listens once will listen twice; Her heart be sure is not of ice, And one refusal no rebuff.

I have not loved the world, not the world me; I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd To its idolatries a patient knee.

The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it.

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy!

Her years Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs; But there are forms which Time to touch forbears. And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things.

And both were young, and one was beautiful.

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom.