18 CONCHOLOGY. 



XXXIV. 



Thou hast not leamM the cruel art, 

 To win, and then to break the heart. 



That sooth'd and cherish'd thine ; 

 No — for thou hast not dwelt among, 

 Tlie faithless, fickle, selfish throng, 

 Of Imman kind, who basely wrong, 



The friends round whom they twine 



XXXV. 



Wliy, with those silks so finely spun, 

 By which thy slender form is hung, 



Wouldst thou with fashion vie r 

 Thou needst not weave thyself such dress, 

 Enough thou hast of loveliness, 

 (As well thy brilliant tints confess,) 



To captivate the eye. 



