What are to me those honours or renown      Past or to come, a new-born people’s cry?   Albeit for such I could despise a crown      Of aught save laurel, or for such could die.   I am a fool of passion, and a frown      Of thine to me is an adder’s eye   To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down      Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high:   Such is this maddening fascination grown,      So strong thy magic or so weak am I.