That subtle wreath of hair, about mine arm;
The mystery, the sign you must not touch.’
The scholastic reason he gives quite dissolves the charm of tender and touching grace in the sentiment itself—
‘For ’tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which unto heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control,
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.’
Again, the following lines, the title of which is Love’s Deity, are highly characteristic of this author’s manner, in which the thoughts are inlaid in a costly but imperfect mosaic-work.
‘I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost,
Who died before the God of Love was born: