I see a slumberer, crown’d with flowers, and smiling
As in delighted visions, on the brink
Of a dread chasm; and this strange fantasy
Hath cast so deep a shadow o’er my thoughts,
I cannot but be sad.
Con. Why, let me sing
One of the sweet wild strains you love so well,
And this will banish it.
Raim. It may not be.
O gentle Constance! go not forth to-day: