precisely like the whole long past of a dream. She had not a good
temper. When the poet groans it seems that she has laughed at him; when
he flouts her, we may understand that she has chidden her lyrist in no
temperate terms. In doing this she has sinned not so much against him as
against Love. With that she is perpetually reproved. The lyrist
complains to Love, pities Love for her scorning, and threatens to go away
with Love, who is on his side. The sweetest verse is tuned to love when
the loved one proves worthy.

There is no record of success for this policy. She goes on dancing or
scolding, as the case may be, and the lyrist goes on boasting of his
constancy, or suddenly renounces it for a day. The situation has
variants, but no surprise or ending. The lover's convention is explicit
enough, but it might puzzle a reader to account for the lady's. Pride in
her beauty, at any rate, is hers--pride so great that she cannot bring
herself to perceive the shortness of her day. She is so unobservant as
to need to be told that life is brief, and youth briefer than life; that
the rose fades, and so forth.

Now we need not assume that the lady of the lyrics ever lived. But
taking her as the perfectly unanimous conception of the lyrists, how is
it she did not discover these things unaided? Why does the lover
invariably imagine her with a mind intensely irritable under his own
praise and poetry? Obviously we cannot have her explanation of any of
these matters. Why do the poets so much lament the absence of truth in
one whose truth would be of little moment? And why was the convention so
pleasant, among all others, as to occupy a whole age--nay, two great
ages--of literature?

Music seems to be principally answerable. For the lyrics of the lady are