Now let me bear with spirit meek
An hour of pure and perfect bliss.
XVIII.
But do ye look indeed as friends?
Is there no change? Are [ye not] cold?
Oh! I do dread that Fortune lends
Fictitious good!—that I behold, 140
To lose, these treasures, which of old
Were all my glory, all my pride:
May not these arms that form infold?