And kiss this clay-cold model of thy face!"
XCI.
"Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps,
I do but read my sorrows by their shine;
O come and quench them with thy oozy damps,
And let my darkness intermix with thine;
Since love is blinded, wherefore should I see?
Now love is death,—death will be love to me!"
XCII.
"Away, away, this vain complaining breath,