And would have wrenched it bodily yesterday.
Come then, I rue it, and I swear to you—
This drove me here—’twill not be done again.
[Rhodope laughs.
For ne’er I longed as now that I might ward
Not just the grief that burrows to the bone
And leaves its scars to sharp the after-sting,
Nay, but to scare the tiniest shadow hence
That might o’ercast your soul with its annoy,
Though such a shadow’s source should be myself.