Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I construe2 whether： 'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile, 'T may be, again to make me wander thither3： 'Wander,' a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf4.
XIV. Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share： She bade good night that kept my rest away； And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care, To descant1 on the doubts of my decay. 'Farewell,' quoth she, 'and come again tomorrow： Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.
