For from the colliquation of soft joys 395
How chang’d you rise! the ghost of what you was!
Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan;
Your veins exhausted and your nerves unstrung.
Spoil’d of its balm and sprightly zest, the blood
Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves 400
(To each slight impulse tremblingly awake)
A subtle Fiend that mimics all the plagues
Rapid and restless springs from part to part.
The blooming honours of your youth are fallen;