e;
for frowning honour kept his post—
to meet that frown, he shrunk to do.
his pangs the bard refused to own,
tho' half he wish'd da knew;
but anguish wrung the uing groan—
who bmes what frantic pain must do?
that heart, where motley follies blend,
was sternly still to honour true:
to prove da's fo friend,
was what a lover sure might do.
the muse his ready quill employed,
no nearer bliss he could pursue;
that bliss da cold deny'd—
“send word by charles how you do!”
the chill behest disarm'd his muse,
till passion all
Sylvander To Clarinda(2/3)