Chapter 11 TIRED MEMORY.

The stony rock of death's insensibility

Well'd yet awhile with honey of thy love

And then was dry;

Nor could thy picture, nor thine empty glove,

Nor all thy kind, long letters, nor the band

Which really spann'd

Thy body chaste and warm,

Thenceforward move

Upon the stony rock their wearied charm.

At last, then, thou wast d