His head, Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.

The little wind that hardly shook The silver of the sleeping brook Blew the gold hair about her eyes,-- A mystery of mysteries. So he must often pause, and stoop, An all the wanton ringlets loop Behind her dainty ear--emprise Of slow event and many sighs.

Your horrid image doth unfix my hair.

[Your] horrid image doth unfix my hair.

Spare feast! a radish and an egg.

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd / Long since.