In shame? Why hesitates thy faltering hand50
And sinks inactive? Why dost counsel take
Within thy heart, and turn away, and ask
Whether this deed become thee? Do but think
Upon thy mother; then wilt thou confess
It doth become thee well. But what drags out
In long delay this summer night's brief span
To winter's hours of darkness? And what cause
Prevents the stars from sinking in the sky?55
The sun shrinks from my face. I must away,