VII.

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink, Like Arno[528] in the summer, to a shallow, So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, Which threatens inundations deep and yellow! Such difference doth a few months make. You'd think Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; No more it doth--its ploughs but change their boys, Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.