But sighs subside, and tears (even widows’) shrink,
Like Arno 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.