‘And you are in my thought: that silver ray
Will ever your dear image thus recall’—
My image? Mine! She’d barter it away
For Pretty Poll’s on an Italian’s tray!
Three weeks, full weeks,—it is too plain—too bad—
Too gross and palpable! Oh cursed day!
My senses have not crazed—but if they had—
Such moons would worry a Mad Doctor mad!
“Oh Nature! wherefore did you frame a lip
So fair for falsehood? Wherefore have you drest