XIV. Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share： She bade good night that kept my rest away； And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with care, To descant on the doubts of my decay. 'Farewell,' quoth she, 'and come again tomorrow： Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.

    Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether： 'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile, 'T may be, again to make me wander thither： 'Wander,' a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.