Chapter 33

Perchance she died in age--surviving all, Charms, kindred, children--with the silver grey On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome--But whither would Conjecture stray? Thus much alone we know--Metella died, The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride! CIV. I know not why--but standing thus by thee It seems as if I had thine inmate known, …