Not such, Narcissa, my distress for thee.
I’ll make an altar of thy sacred tomb, 590
To sacrifice to wisdom.—What wast thou?
“Young, gay, and fortunate!” Each yields a theme.
I’ll dwell on each, to shun thought more severe;
(Heaven knows I labour with severer still!) 594
I’ll dwell on each, and quite exhaust thy death.
A soul without reflection, like a pile
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
And, first, thy youth. What says it to grey hairs?