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 A manly courage with a woman's fear, The madman's phrenzy in a reasoning mind, The strength of steel, the fury of a beast, The ambition of a hero—something 'tis, But by Minerva and the gods I swear! I know not what this nameless something is.

(Book xiii. § 13, p. 899.)

Why, foolish painter, give those wings to Love? Love is not light, as my sad heart can prove: Love hath no wings, or none that I can see; If he can fly—oh! bid him fly from me!—

(Book xiii. § 14, p. 900.)

He who affirms that lovers are all mad, Or fools, gives no strong proof of his own sense; For if from human life we take the joys And the delights of love, what is there left That can deserve a better name than death? For instance, now, I love a music girl, A virgin too, and am I therefore mad? For she's a paragon of female beauty; Her form and figure excellent; her voice Melodiously sweet; and then her air Has dignity and grace. With what delight I gaze upon her charms! More than you feel At sight of him who for the public shows Gives you free entrance to the theatre.—

The same.

If love be folly, as the schools would prove, The man must lose his wits, who falls in love; Deny him love, you doom the wretch to death, And then it follows he must lose his breath. Good sooth! there is a young and dainty maid I dearly love, a minstrel she by trade;