O rarest interchange of truth and lies,
Love, ever pandering to thine own deceit!
Thou sweet chameleon of a thousand dyes!
Truth still is varying with thy wayward heat;
Truth long ago has banish’d thee his court,
Yet by thy essence Truth thou still must be;
Though different winds waft to a changeful port,
If Truth be gone, then it departs with thee;
Lo! thou art Truth, and Truth developed lies
In Love, whose home is Beauty, and the world,
And the quick sympathy of unfathomed eyes,
And maddening forms out of their orbits hurl’d;
And all are drunken for a little space,
Then drink disgust, quite sickened of the chase.