But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,

Like Arno  ⁵¹ in the summer, to a shallow,

So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,

Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!

Such difference doth a few months make. You'd think

Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow;

No more it doth—its ploughs but change their boys,

Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.