And jealousy is love lost in a mist.
Both hoodwink truth and play at blind man’s buff,
Cry “Here” and “There,” seem quite direct enough;
But all the while shift place, making the mind,
As it gets out of breath, despair to find;
Or if at last something it stumbles on,
Perhaps it calls it false, and then ’tis gone.
If true, what’s gained? Only just time to see
A breathless play—a game of fantasy
That has no other end than this: that men