And his proud look, and her soft languid air
Will—­but I spare you—­go, unhappy pair!”
   And now, approaching to the Journey’s end,
His anger fails, his thoughts to kindness tend,
He less offended feels, and rather fears t’offend: 
Now gently rising, hope contends with doubt,
And casts a sunshine on the views without;
And still reviving joy and lingering gloom
Alternate empire o’er his soul assume;
Till, long perplex’d he now began to find
The softer thoughts engross the settling mind: 
He saw the mansion, and should quickly see
His Laura’s self—­and angry could he be? 
No! the resentment melted all away —
“For this my grief a single smile will pay,”
Our trav’ller cried;—­“And why should it offend,
That one so good should have a pressing friend? 
Grieve not, my heart! to find a favourite guest
Thy pride and boast—­ye selfish sorrows rest;
She will be kind, and I again be bless’d.” 
   While gentler passions thus his bosom sway’d
He reach’d the mansion, and he saw the maid;
“My Laura!”—­“My Orlando!—­this is kind;
In truth I came persuaded, not inclined: 
Our friends’ amusement let us now pursue,
And I to-morrow will return with you.” 
   Like man entranced the happy Lover stood —
“As Laura wills, for she is kind and good;
Ever the truest, gentlest, fairest, best —
As Laura wills:  I see her and am bless’d.” 
   Home went the Lovers through that busy place,
By Loddon Hall, the country’s pride and grace;
By the rich meadows where the oxen fed,
Through the green vale that form’d the river’s bed;
And by unnumber’d cottages and farms,
That have for musing minds unnumbered charms;
And how affected by the view of these
Was then Orlando? did they pain or please? 
   Nor pain nor pleasure could they yield—­and why? 
The mind was fill’d, was happy, and the eye
Roved o’er the fleeting views, that but appear’d to die. 
   Alone Orlando on the morrow paced
The well-known road; the gipsy-tent he traced;
The dam high-raised, the reedy dikes between,
The scatter’d hovels on the barren green,
The burning sand, the fields of thin-set rye,
Mock’d by the useless Flora blooming by;
And last the heath with all its various bloom,
And the close lanes that led the trav’ller home. 
   Then could these scenes the former joys renew? 
Or was there now dejection in the view? —
Nor one or other would they yield—­and why? 
The mind was absent, and the vacant eye
Wander’d o’er viewless scenes, that but appear’d to die.

TALE XI.

EDWARD SHORE.

               Seem they grave or learned? 

Why, so didst thou.—­Seem they religious? 
Why, so didst thou; or are they spare in diet,
Free from gross passion, or of mirth or anger,
Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,
Garnish’d and deck’d in modest compliment,
Not working with the eye without the ear,
And but with purged judgment trusting neither?  Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem. 
                           Shakespeare, Henry V.