Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee,
To strew with thorns a restless bed—
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thy feet were not misled
To jocund ground, yet all infirm;
Because thou art not fond, they said,
Nor dost exact thine heyday term;
Because thou art not fond, as we,
How dull a creature thou must be!
Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head!