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CXIX.
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill'd
from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to
hopes and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw
myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart
committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed
never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been
fitted
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O
benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is by
evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is
built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong,
far greater.
So I return rebuked to my content
And
gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.
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