Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps,
And every air was heavy with the sighs
Of orange-groves and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?

Pauline. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang
Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!
Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,
Who would not love thee like Pauline?

Mel. [bitterly.] Oh, false one!
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man
If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,
I had painted poverty, and toil, and care,
Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue;--Pauline,
That is not love!

Pauline. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!
At first, in truth, I might not have been won,
Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride;
But now,--oh! trust me,--couldst thou fall from power
And sink--

Mel. As low as that poor gardener's son
Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?--

Pauline. Even then,
Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear