LXXXIII.

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; Not that Philosophy on such a mind E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes: But Passion raves herself[97] to rest, or flies; And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:[dh] Pleasure's palled Victim! life-abhorring Gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.[98]