Bid me describe, whose every nerve is seared,
A lover’s woe, whom mistress never cheered.
His lonesomeness, the anguish of his breast,
Not here I’ll paint; elsewhere it may be best.100
He cries: “O succour me; I faint, I pant;
And quickly; lest delay the dagger plant!”
The Mystic[64] true relieves each moment’s need;
“To-morrow” ’s not a point in his pure creed.
Art not persuaded so? The proverb scan:
“Delay’s the thief of time;” say: “bane of man.”