Inheres in veils, in crowns or rusty swords
That is eternal? But the weary world
O’er things like these is sunken into sleep;
Things that she wrested in her latest throe
And holds to fast. Who’d plunder her thereof
Wakes her. Then let that man first search himself
If he be strong enough to hold her bound
When, jolted half awake, she lays about her,
And rich enough to offer her aught higher,
If she be loath to let her trinket go.