Still he delay’d, unable to decide,
Which was the master-passion, Love or Pride: 
He sometimes wonder’d how his friend could make,
And then exulted in, the night’s mistake;
Had she but fortune, “Doubtless then,” he cried,
“Some happier man had won the wealthy bride.” 
   While thus he hung in balance, now inclined
To change his state, and then to change his mind,
That careless George dropp’d idly on the ground
A letter, which his crafty master found;
The stupid youth confess’d his fault, and pray’d
The generous ’Squire to spare a gentle maid,
Of whom her tender mother, full of fears,
Had written much—­“she caught her oft in tears,
For ever thinking on a youth above
Her humble fortune—­still she own’d not love;
Nor can define, dear girl! the cherish’d pain,
But would rejoice to see the cause again: 
That neighbouring youth, whom she endured before,
She now rejects, and will behold no more;
Raised by her passion, she no longer stoops
To her own equals, but she pines and droops,
Like to a lily on whose sweets the sun
Has withering gazed—­she saw and was undone;
His wealth allured her not—­nor was she moved
By his superior state, himself she loved;
So mild, so good, so gracious, so genteel, —
But spare your sister, and her love conceal;
We must the fault forgive, since she the pain must feel.” 
   “Fault!” said the ’Squire, “there’s coarseness in the mind
That thus conceives of feelings so refined;
Here end my doubts, nor blame yourself, my friend,
Fate made you careless—­here my doubts have end.” 
   The way is plain before us—­there is now
The Lover’s visit first, and then the vow,
Mutual and fond, the marriage-rite, the Bride
Brought to her home with all a husband’s pride: 
The ’Squire receives the prize his merits won,
And the glad parents leave the patron-son. 
   But in short time he saw, with much surprise,
First gloom, then grief, and then resentment rise,
From proud, commanding frowns, and anger-darting eyes: 
“Is there in Harriot’s humble mind this fire,
This fierce impatience?” ask’d the puzzled ’Squire: 
“Has marriage changed her? or the mask she wore
Has she thrown by, and is herself once more?”
   Hour after hour, when clouds on clouds appear,
Dark and more dark, we know the tempest near;
And thus the frowning brow, the restless form,
And threat’ning glance, forerun domestic storm: 
So read the Husband, and, with troubled mind,
Reveal’d his fears—­“My Love, I hope you find
All here is pleasant—­but I must confess
You seem offended, or in some distress: 
Explain the grief you feel, and leave me to redress.” 
   “Leave it to you?” replied the Nymph—­“indeed! 
What to the cause from whence the ills proceed? 
Good Heaven! to take me from a place where I
Had every comfort underneath the sky;
And then immure me in a gloomy place,