Lady. If Love be dead--

Poet. And I aver it! Lady. Tell me, Bard! where Love lies buried? Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born: Oh, gentle dame! think it no scorn If, in my fancy, I presume To call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb. And on that tomb to read the line:-- 'Here lies a Love that once seem'd mine, But caught a chill, as I divine, And died at length of a Decline.'

1828.