CANTO III.
And said I that my limbs were old,
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor wither’d heart was dead,
And that I might not sing of love;—
How could I, to the dearest theme
That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream,
So foul, so false a recreant prove!
How could I name love’s very name,