Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.

The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.

And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

Physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem; but although we sneer - In health - when ill we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.

And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.