And lifted him up in my arms with intent
To kiss him—but he cruel—kindly alas!
Held out to my lips a plucked handful of grass!
Then I dropped him in horror, but felt as I fled,
The stone he indignantly hurled at my head,
That dissevered my ear, but I felt not, whose fate,
Was to meet more distress in his love his hate!"
Hood.
The only mitigation of his sorrow, was that when in Thessaly
"He met with the same as himself,"