[136] But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her,—why, she, O, she is fallen
[140] Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little which may season give
[143] To her foul-tainted flesh!
Bene.
Sir, sir, be patient.