LXV.
             
        Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt;
            I lull a fancy trouble-tost
            With ‘Love’s too precious to be lost,
        A little grain shall not be spilt.’

        And in that solace can I sing,
            Till out of painful phases wrought
            There flutters up a happy thought,
        Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:

        Since we deserved the name of friends,
            And thine effect so lives in me,
            A part of mine may live in thee
        And move thee on to noble ends.