[Still] to be so displaced. I was all ear, 560
And took in strains that might create a soul
[Under the ribs of Death]. But, oh! ere long
Too well I did perceive it was the voice
Of my most honored Lady, your dear sister.
Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear; 565
And ‘O poor hapless nightingale,’ thought I,
‘How sweet thou sing’st, how near the deadly snare!’
Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste,
Through paths and turnings often trod by day,