The weak lean oft on all beside themselves,
And soon I blamed my heart that it could dare
To lure his poor, weak, crazed confession on;
And then I flush’d, and broke in passionate sobs,
To think Doretta dared to hint such things.
XXIII.
Three days my woes alternated, and then
I went to my confessor for relief.
“What, child,” he said, “love troubles you again?
The rest of us poor mortals here, we fret