404

Dazed such by breadth of place, While sense and hope bewitched. None could trace the slender space, Midst a prison and a kiss.

And as favour dims; You, that in new arms do lay, Shed all but scent from limb, And the stain of burial clay.

But, if love be so blind, And trust as frail as the morning air, Let it be with virtue lined, That my fall, at least be fair.