Where now the barren rock? the painted shrew?
Where now, Lorenzo! life’s eternal round?
Have I not made my triple promise good?
Vain is the world; but only to the vain. 420
To what compare we then this varying scene,
Whose worth ambiguous rises, and declines?
Waxes, and wanes? (In all propitious, night 423
Assists me here) compare it to the moon;
Dark in herself, and indigent; but rich
In borrow’d lustre from a higher sphere.