Dear, dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms?

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair / In leprosy.

And from that luckless hour my tyrant fair Has led and turned me by a single hair.

Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be appeased or no?

Reads verse and thinks she understands.

Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, / Meted on each side by the angel's reed, / For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me / To cover.