In which my youth is buried. And what gain you
By all this crime and misery? My body,
But not my soul; without possessing which,
Beauty itself is but a breathing corpse,
But a cold marble statue, unsuffused
With the responsive hue of sympathy,
Possess’d but not enjoy’d.
Oh, ill betide that villain love, not love,
That all its object and affection finds
In the mere contact of encircling arms!