Lady. If Love be dead—
 Poet. And I aver it!
Lady. Tell me, Bard! where Love lies buried?
 Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born:
Oh, gentle dame! think it no scorn
If, in my fancy, I presume
To call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb.
And on that tomb to read the line:—
'Here lies a Love that once seem'd mine,
But caught a chill, as I divine,
And died at length of a Decline.'