Did nourish that which bred their own confusion.
XXII.
The child, for ever after, dreads the fire;
That once therewith by chance his finger burned.
Water of Time distilled doth cool Desire.
"And far he ran," they say, "that never turned."
After long storms, I see the port at last.
Farewell, Folly! For now my love is past!
XXIII.
Base servile thoughts of men, too much dejected,