Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/181

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But, for the general award of love,
 * The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;

Though Dido silent is in under-grove,
 * And Isabella's was a great distress,

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove
 * Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less—

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
 * Enriched from ancestral merchandise,

And for them many a weary hand did swelt
 * In torched mines and noisy factories,

And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt
 * In blood from stinging whip; with hollow eyes

Many all day in dazzling river stood, To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
 * And went all naked to the hungry shark;

For them his ears gush'd blood; for them in death
 * The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark

Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe
 * A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:

Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel, That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.

Why were they proud? Because their marble founts
 * Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears?