Where Death, like Love, divinely set,
With exquisite sighs and sips,
Feeds and is fed and is not fain,
And Memory married with Regret,
And Pleasure amorous of red Pain,
In moon-wise musing wax and wane;
That with the bitter sweetness of her breath
I might somewhile remember and forget
(For Life is Love, and Love is Death!)
It was my hap—ah well-a-way—