XXVII.

Much I respect, and much I have adored, In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, And more attracts by all it doth conceal-- A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, A loving letter with a mystic seal, A cure for grief--for what can ever rankle Before a petticoat and peeping ankle?