I there beheld thee, to the wretched dear As angels to expiring saints appear

When whispering hope— I saw an infant press'd And hush'd to slumber on my Emma's breast! Hush'd be each rude suggestion! Well I know, With a free hand your bounty you bestow;

And to these objects frequent comforts send,

But still they see not now their pitying friend.

A merchant, Emma, when his wealth he states, Though rich, is faulty if he over-rates

His real store; and, gaining greater trust

3

For the deception, should we deem him just?

If in your singleness of heart you hide

No flaw or frailty, when your truth is tried, And time has drawn aside the veil of love, We may be sorry, but we must approve; 1 The fancied charms no more our praise compel,

But doubly shines the worth that stands so well.