‘Forgive me if I held thee negligent,
Or if accustom’d vanity ascribe
An honour to myself that was not meant.
Thy lover is it, who so dearly prized
The pretty soul, then left her and despised?
To him more like thy heavenward steps were bent:
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‘Nor without reason: Zeus, I tell thee, swoon’d
To hear the story of the drop of oil,
The revelation and the ghastly wound: