XXVIII

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,

      There in that forest did his great love cease;

Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,

      It aches in loneliness—is ill at peace

As the break-covert bloodhounds of such sin:

      They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease

Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,

Each richer by his being a murderer.