Book V, 237

All the night long I complain, and when dawn comes to give me a little rest, the swallows twitter around and move me again to tears chasing sweet slumber away. I keep my eyes sightless, but again the thought of Rhodanthe haunts my heart. Hush ye spiteful babblers! It was not I who shore the tongue of Philomela. Go weep for Itylus on the hills, and lament sitting by the hoopoe’s nest amid the crags ; that I may sleep for a little season, and perchance some dream may come and cast Rhodanthe’s arms about me.