To live so long, and yet to die;
To sing sad songs for Sylvia's sake,
And yet no peace to gain thereby!
What have I done? What left unsaid?
Nay, I will count my tears instead.
XVII.
Here is a word of wild design.
Here is a threat; 'twas meant to warn.
Here is a fierce and freezing line,
As hot as hate, as cold as scorn.