There is a very life in our despair,

Vitality of poison,—a quick root

Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were

As nothing did we die; but Life will suit

Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit,

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, [7.B.]

All ashes to the taste: Did man compute

Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er

Such hours 'gainst years of life,—say, would he name threescore?