Be dragg’d, e’en as a felon, on the winds
Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints?
And Marco! hath he not betray’d me too?
Vile doubt! That I could cast it from my soul
Before I die!—But no! What boots it now
Thus to look back on life with eye that turns
To linger where my footstep may not tread?
Now, Philip! thou wilt triumph! Be it so!
I too have proved such vain and impious joys,
And know their value now. But oh! again