Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep
A young she-devil. I was fired thereby
To bolder efforts, and a muffled cry
Came from the strings, as if a saint did weep.
XV.
I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow
Just time enough to fit it to a mesh
Of merry notes, and drew it back afresh
To talk of truth and constancy and woe,