Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet fondly loves!
You are my true and honourable wife; As dear to me as the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.
No .... holy father, throw away that thought. Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom.
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