Why thy peculiar rancour wreak’d on me?
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?
Thy shaft flew thrice;[2] and thrice my peace was slain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill’d her horn.
O Cynthia! why so pale? dost thou lament
Thy wretched neighbour? grieve to see thy wheel
Of ceaseless change outwhirl’d in human life? 217
How wanes my borrow’d bliss! from fortune’s smile,
Precarious courtesy! not virtue’s sure,
Self-given, solar ray of sound delight.