"Is there not wrought a madness in thy brain
Each time my thin veils part and close again—
Each time their flying ring
Is seen a moment's space encircling me
With filmy changes—each time, rapidly
Rolled down, their cloud-like gauzes billowing
About my limbs they fling?
"Ah, seek not in this moment some cold will;
Attend to no false pratings that would kill
Thy heart, and make thee fall:
But now a little lean to me, and fear
My charming. Ah, thy fame to me is dear!
Some wound of mine, when me thou couldst not call,
Might slay thee after all.
"For even while I sing, the unseen grace
Of Love descending hath filled all this place
With most strong prevalence;
His miracle is raging in the breasts
Of all these men, and mightily he rests
On me and thee. His power is too intense,
No curse shall drive him hence.
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