What heart but trembles at so strange a bliss?
In spite of all the truths the Muse has sung, 620
Ne’er to be prized enough! enough revolved!
Are there who wrap the world so close about them,
They see no farther than the clouds; and dance
On heedless vanity’s fantastic toe,
Till, stumbling at a straw, in their career,
Headlong they plunge, where end both dance and song?
Are there, Lorenzo? is it possible? 627
Are there on earth (let me not call them men)