Page:Poems and lyrics of the joy of earth.djvu/152

Rh My version, madam, runs not to that end. A certain madness of an hour half past, Caught her like fever: her just lord no friend She fancied; aimed beyond beauty, and thence grew The prim acerbity, sweet Love's outcast.
 * Great heaven ward off that stroke from you!

Your prayer to heaven, good sir, is generous: How generous likewise that you do not name Offended nature! She from all of us Couched idle underneath our showering tree, May quite withhold her most destructive flame;
 * And then what woeful women we!