- My version, madam, runs not to that end.

A certain madness of an hour half past,

Caught her like fever; her just lord no friend

She fancied; aimed beyond beauty, and thence grew

The prim acerbity, sweet Love's outcast.

Great heaven ward off that stroke from you!

- Your prayer to heaven, good sir, is generous:

How generous likewise that you do not name

(Editor：world)