How Hard A Thing 'twould Be To

How Hard A Thing 'twould Be To Please You All.

A Woman Only Obliges A Man To Secrecy, That She May Have The Pleasure Of Telling Herself.

Love's But The Frailty Of The Mind, When 'tis Not With Ambition Joined; A Sickly Flame, Which If Not Fed Expires; And Feeding, Wastes In Self-consuming Fires.

Thus In This Sad, But Oh, Too Pleasing State! My Soul Can Fix Upon Nothing But Thee; Thee It Contemplates, Admires, Adores, Nay Depends On, Trusts On You Alone.

They Are At The End Of The Gallery; Retired To Their Tea And Scandal, According To Their Ancient Custom.