Chapter 37 PSYCHE'S DISCONTENT.

'Enough, enough, ambrosial plumed Boy!

My bosom is aweary of thy breath.

Thou kissest joy

To death.

Have pity of my clay-conceived birth

And maiden's simple mood,

Which longs for ether and infinitude,

As thou, being God, crav'st littleness and earth!

Thou art immortal, thou canst ever toy,

Nor savour less

The sweets of