Seen, a pictorial portent, under,
O great Rialto, the vast round
Of thy thrice-solid arch profound!
(How light we go, how softly! Ah,
Life should be as the gondola!)
How light we go, how softly——
Sp. Nay;
Fore heaven, enough of that to-day:
I’m deadly weary of your tune,
And half-ennuyé with the moon;