Canto LXIII

Sweet soul! do with me as thou wilt;

      I lull a fancy trouble-tost

      With 'Love's too precious to be lost,

A little grain shall not be spilt.'

And in that solace can I sing,

      Till out of painful phases wrought

      There flutters up a happy thought,

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:

Since we deserved the name of friends,

      And thine effect so lives in me,

      A part of mine may live in thee,

And move thee on to noble ends.