When, like a goodly hart, thou wert beset
With crafty blood-hounds, lurching for thy life,
While as they feign’d to chase thee fairly down;
And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing King,
Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.
How is it vanish’d in a hasty spleen,
The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now
I saw the hoary pile cresting the top
Of that north-western hill; and in this Now
A cloud hath pass’d on it, and its dim bulk