That, whilom, didst, through love, my wrack conspire:
I banish thee! and rather wish t'abide
All austere hardness, and continual pain;
Than to revoke thee! or to love again!
XXXII.
The time will come when, looking in a glass,
Thy rivelled face, with sorrow thou shalt see!
And sighing, say, "It is not as it was!
These cheeks were wont more fresh and fair to be!
But now, what once made me so much admired