But time will come when hope must die; she feels
The gathering cold and creeping touch of death,
And hath no thought but how to pass in peace.
Even such my hope, agèd and white as thou,
And near her term. Persist not! Rudely to arouse her
But hastens her sure end. Like in spent ashes
Which fuel chokes, what little fire remains
Burns best unmended.
Ul.Thou wouldst wrong the gods,
Who show such care for thee.