Young Love hung dim, yet quivering round him threw

Beams of fresh fire, while Beauty waned and bowed.

Scorn Love, and dread the doom for you.

- Called she not for her mirror, sir? Forth ran

Her women: I am lost, she cried, when lo,

Love in the form of an admiring man

Once more in adoration bent the knee,

And brought the faded Pagan to full blow: