B. A plague upon you!
You bore me with your riddles.
A. Still, all this
Is plain and easy.
B. What then can it be?
A. Sleep—that puts all our cares and pains to flight. —J. A. St. John.
The same.
Nor mortal fate, nor yet immortal thine,
Amalgam rare of human and divine;
Still ever new thou comest, soon again