That such a word should come from out my mouth.
Yes, Lesbia, is it I, it is Rhodope
That warned you maids so oft, and checked your motion
To filch with meddling hand Death’s dismal office
Though but a spider’s life were set at stake.
I’ve not forgot it, but ’tis of the time
When in fresh morning dew I laved my limbs
And in the streams of sunshine basked them dry;
But now I bay for blood, now naught of me
Survives but what the gods will find is needful