That out had scamper’d, with her brother,
To pull young flowers, and hide from mother.
LXXX.
I knew it all: but there I lay,
My eyes were op’d—I could not stir!
I felt as some tir’d pilgrim may,
That hath been years a traveller!
A breeze was through my casement blowing,
And oh I heard the warblers sing;
And rarest plants their scents were throwing,