Nor shall I quickly wither like the rosebud from the tree,
My queen-like graces shining when my beauty’s gone from me.
But when the sculptured marble is raised o’er my head,
And the matchless Blanche lies lifeless among the noble dead,
This saintly lady abbess hath made me justly fear
It nothing will avail me that I was worshipp’d here.”
LINES
ON THE SAME PICTURE
BEING REMOVED TO MAKE
PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT
OF A LADY BY TITIAN
XXXV