Behold her shape, inexorable, vast—
Blind arbitress o’er changeling wrong and right:
CVII
Who pain, and bliss, and passion, hope, despair,
Casts in life’s cup, she, cunning, mixes fair,
And gives, as to a babe, man’s helpless lips,
Drawing delicious poison unaware.
CVIII
Then what is life? Well might we ask again—