His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found

The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again,

And from a purer fount, on holier ground,

And deemed its spring perpetual—but in vain!

Still round him clung invisibly a chain

Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen,

And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain,

Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,

Entering with every step he took through many a scene.