L’envoi

Oft my dull hours, poor Song, thou hast deceived, And borne me back to that enchanted dream, In which I made thee. In thee have I weaved More than to shallow eyesight there will seem. And thou hast liv’d, as, in the darling beam Of one bright lady, the cag’d bird doth dwell, Where he that gave it, envies it the gleam Of her admiring smiles. But from her cell Now thou art loos’d, poor Song—thou’lt not be lov’d so well.