I tear me from this passion that I loved—
Though Paget sware that I should ride again—
But yet I think I shall not; I have done:
My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream,
The blossom of the seasons, and no more
For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath,
Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops.
Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride
(For still thou know'st he bore me like a man—),
And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere,