Some fate still kept ye from your purpose sweet,
Down strange, circuitous paths it drew your feet!”
Thus far she read, and, “Let me read no more,”
She clamored, “since the scales have left mine eyes
And freed the dreadful gift I lacked before!
We are but puppets, in whatever guise
They clothe us, to whatever tune we move;
Albeit we prate of duty, dream of love.
“Let me, too, play the common part, and wean
My life from hope, and look beneath the mask