That could renew them. Strange—that life should cling
But closer as we strive to shake it off!
And mock its tenement, though that be worn
Too thin to harbor it!
Foscarini.
Nay—you talk wildly.
Teresa.
Oh, there has been a weary fever here,
That scorched—and scorched—as it would sear my brain,
’Till that grew wayward. All things seemed a vision,