Thecompany retired, Camillus said,
          He meant to write before he went to bed,
          And told his valet he might go to rest
          A lucky circumstance, it is confessed. 
          Thus left alone, and as the belle desired;
          Who, from her soul, the spark so much admired;
          Yet knew not how the subject to disclose,
          Or, in what way her wishes to propose;
          At length, with trembling accents, she revealed;
          The flame she longer could not keep concealed.

          Exceedinglysurprised Camillus seemed,
          And scarcely could believe but what he dreamed;
          Why, hey! said he, good lady, is it thus,
          With favoured friends, you doubtful points discuss? 
          He made her sit, and then his seat regained
          Who would have thought, cried he, you here remained;
          Now who this hiding place to you could tell? 
          ’Twas love, fond love! replied the beauteous belle;
          And straight a blush her lovely cheek suffused,
          So rare with those to Cyprian revels used;
          For Venus’s vot’ries, to pranks resigned,
          Another way, to get a colour, find.

          Camillus, truly, some suspicions had,
          That he was loved, though neither fool nor mad;
          Nor such a novice in the Paphian scene,
          But what he could at once some notions glean: 
          More certain tokens, howsoe’er, to get,
          And set the lady’s feelings on the fret,
          By trying if the gloom that o’er her reigned
          Was only sly pretence, he coldness feigned.

          Sheoften sighed as if her heart would break;
          At length love’s piercing anguish made her speak: 
          What you will say, cried she, I cannot guess,
          To see me thus a fervent flame confess. 
          The very thought my face with crimson dyes;
          My way of life no shield for this supplies;
          The moment pure affection ’s in the soul,
          No longer wanton freaks the mind control.

          Myconduct to excuse, what can I say? 
          O could my former life be done away,
          And in your recollection naught remain,
          But what might virtuous constancy maintain
          At all event, my frankness overlook,
          Too well I see, the fatal path I took
          Has such displeasure to your breast conveyed,
          My zeal will rather hurt than give me aid;
          But hurt or not, I’ll idolize you still: 
          Beat, drive away, contemn me as you will;
          Or worse, if you the torment can contrive
          I’m your’s alone, Camillus, while alive.