That rock to bloom; and tames the painted shrew;
And what will more surprise, Lorenzo! gives
To life’s sick, nauseous iteration, change;
And straightens nature’s circle to a line. 370
Believest thou this, Lorenzo? lend an ear,
A patient ear, thou’lt blush to disbelieve.
A languid, leaden iteration reigns,
And ever must, o’er those, whose joys are joys
Of sight, smell, taste: the cuckoo-seasons sing
The same dull note to such as nothing prize,