when a lover praises his lady's beauty, and charges her with cruelty, he
casts no imputation upon her fair name; at any rate, all I can say is
that yesterday I made a sonnet on the ingratitude of this Chloris, which
goes thus:

SONNET

At midnight, in the silence, when the eyes
Of happier mortals balmy slumbers close,
The weary tale of my unnumbered woes
To Chloris and to Heaven is wont to rise.
And when the light of day returning dyes
The portals of the east with tints of rose,
With undiminished force my sorrow flows
In broken accents and in burning sighs.
And when the sun ascends his star-girt throne,
And on the earth pours down his midday beams,
Noon but renews my wailing and my tears;
And with the night again goes up my moan.
Yet ever in my agony it seems
To me that neither Heaven nor Chloris hears."

The sonnet pleased Camilla, and still more Anselmo, for he praised it and
said the lady was excessively cruel who made no return for sincerity so
manifest. On which Camilla said, "Then all that love-smitten poets say is
true?"

"As poets they do not tell the truth," replied Lothario; "but as lovers
they are not more defective in expression than they are truthful."

"There is no doubt of that," observed Anselmo, anxious to support and
uphold Lothario's ideas with Camilla, who was as regardless of his design
as she was deep in love with Lothario; and so taking delight in anything
that was his, and knowing that his thoughts and writings had her for
their object, and that she herself was the real Chloris, she asked him to
repeat some other sonnet or verses if he recollected any.

"I do," replied Lothario, "but I do not think it as good as the first
one, or, more correctly speaking, less bad; but you can easily judge, for
it is this.

SONNET

I know that I am doomed; death is to me
As certain as that thou, ungrateful fair,
Dead at thy feet shouldst see me lying, ere
My heart repented of its love for thee.
If buried in oblivion I should be,
Bereft of life, fame, favour, even there
It would be found that I thy image bear
Deep graven in my breast for all to see.
This like some holy relic do I prize
To save me from the fate my truth entails,
Truth that to thy hard heart its vigour owes.
Alas for him that under lowering skies,
In peril o'er a trackless ocean sails,
Where neither friendly port nor pole-star shows."

Anselmo praised this second sonnet too, as he had pr