I.
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E meets, by heavenly chance express,The destined maid; some hidden handUnveils to him that lovelinessWhich others cannot understand.His merits in her presence grow,To match the promise in her eyes,And round her happy footsteps blowThe authentic airs of Paradise.For joy of her he cannot sleep;Her beauty haunts him all the night;It melts his heart, it makes him weepFor wonder, worship, and delight.O, paradox of love, he longs,Most humble when he most aspires,To suffer scorn and cruel wrongsFrom her he honours and desires.Her graces make him rich, and askNo guerdon; this imperial styleAffronts him; he disdains to bask,The pensioner of her priceless smile.He prays for some hard thing to do,Some work of fame and labour immense,To stretch the languid bulk and thewOf love’s fresh-born magnipotence.No smallest boon were bought too dear,Though barter’d for his love-sick life;Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer,To vanquish heaven, and call her WifeHe notes how queens of sweetness stillNeglect their crowns, and stoop to mate;How, self-consign’d with lavish will,They ask but love proportionate;How swift pursuit by small degrees,Love’s tactic, works like miracle;How valour, clothed in courtesies,Brings down the haughtiest citadel;And therefore, though he merits notTo kiss the braid upon her skirt,His hope, discouraged ne’er a jot,Out-soars all possible desert.
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