He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more, Such if there be, who loves so long, so well; Let him our sad, our tender…

What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

See my lips tremble and my eyeballs roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul.