Of friendly warnings, which around me flew; 156
And smiled, unsmitten: small my cause to smile!
Death’s admonitions, like shafts upwards shot,
More dreadful by delay, the longer ere
They strike our hearts, the deeper is their wound;
O think how deep, Lorenzo! here it stings:
Who can appease its anguish? How it burns! 162
What hand the barb’d, envenom’d thought can draw?
What healing hand can pour the balm of peace?
And turn my sight undaunted on the tomb?