CVII.

If to delight man's wish, joy e'er unlook'd for, unhop'd for, Falleth, a joy were such proper, a bliss to the soul. Then 'tis a joy to the soul, like gold of Lydia precious, Lesbia mine, that thou com'st to delight me again.

Com'st yet again long-hop'd, long-look'd for vainly, returnest 5 Freely to me. O day white with a luckier hue! Lives there happier any than I, I only? a fairer Destiny? Life so sweet know ye, or aught parallel?