It makes us weep to want it overmuch,
If wayward Fate withhold his full consent.
XI.
Oh, come to me, thou friend of my desire,
My lov'd Amati! At a word of thine
I can be brave, and dash away the brine
From off my cheek, and neutralise the fire
That makes me mad, and use thee as a lyre
To curb the anguish of this soul of mine.