From where fond Hope built her pavilion high,
The gods among, hurl’d headlong, hurl’d at once
To night! to nothing! darker still than night. 660
If ’twas a dream, why wake me, my worst foe,
Lorenzo! boastful of the name of friend?
O for delusion! O for error still!
Could vengeance strike much stronger than to plant
A thinking being in a world like this,
Not over-rich before, now beggar’d quite;
More cursed than at the fall?—The sun goes out!