She is fair; and so is Julia that I love— That I did love, for now my love is thaw’d; Which, like a waxen image, ’gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was.

The metall first he mixt with Medæwart, / That no enchauntment from his dint might saue; / That it in flames of Aetna wrought apart, / And seuen times dipped in the bitter waue / Of hellish Styx, which hidden vertue to it gaue.

She spoke, as one who banisheth Reserves that lovecraft heeds so well, To ease some mighty wish to tell: “’Twas I,” said she, “Who wrote thus clinchingly.

still kicking at 89