Falk monologue — Love's Comedy

So then it is Love's ever-running rill That tells the widow what she once possess'd,-- Out of her language blotted "moan" and "sigh"! So then it is Love's brimming tide that rolls Along the placid veins of wedded souls,-- That very Love that faced the iron sleet, Trampling inane Convention under feet, And scoffing at the impotent discreet! So then it is Love's beauty-kindled flame That keeps the plighted from the taint of time Year after year! Ah yes, the very same That made our young bureaucrat blaze in rhyme! So it is Love's young bliss that will not brave The voyage over vaulted Ocean's wave, But asks a sacrifice when, like the sun, Its face should fill with glory, making one! Ah no, you vulgar prophets of the Lie, Give things the names we ought to know them by; Call widows' passion--wanting what they miss, And wedlock's habit--call it what it is!