Virgil, Above All Poets, Had

Virtue In Distress, And Vice In Triumph Make Atheists Of Mankind.

The Blushing Beauties Of A Modest Maid.

The Perverseness Of My Fate Is Such That He's Not Mine Because He's Mine Too Much.

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.

If Passion Rules, How Weak Does Reason Prove!