too truly show
My anguish'd desperate life to common eyes?
Haply if, where she is, my glance I bend,
This harass'd heart to cheer,
Methinks that Love I hear
Pleading my cause, and see him succour lend.
Not therefore at an end the strife I deem,
Nor in sure rest my heart at last esteem;
For Love most burns within
When Hope most pricks us on the way to win.

MACGREGOR.

From time to time less cruelty I trace
In her sweet smile and form divinely fair;
Less clouded doth appear
The heaven of her fine eyes and lovely face.
What then at last avail to me those sighs,
Which from my sorrows flow,
And in my semblance show
The life of anguish and despair I lead?
If towards her perchance I bend mine eyes,
Some solace to bestow
Upon my bosom's woe,
Methinks Love takes my part, and lends me aid:
Yet still I cannot find the conflict stay'd,
Nor tranquil is my heart in every state:
For, ah! my passion's heat
More strongly glows within as my fond hopes increase.

NOTT.

SONNET CXVII.

_Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace?_

DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.

_P._ What actions fire thee, and what musings fill?
Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne?
_H._ Our lot I know not, but, as I discern,
Her bright eyes favour not our cherish'd ill.
_P._ What profit, with those eyes if she at will
Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn?
_H._ From him, not her those orbs their movement learn.
_P._ What's he to us, she sees it and is still.
_H._ Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments
Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright,
Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.
_P._ Nathless the mind not thus itself contents,
Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,
For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.

MACGREGOR.

_P._ What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?
Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?
_H._ Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil
The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.
_P._ But that is vain, since by her eyes' control
With nature I no sympathy inhale.
_H._ Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.
_P._ No balm to me, since she will not condole.
_H._ When man is mute, how oft the spirit gr