II
Reading edition
Yet, Oxford, it is better thou should’st know That eyes which love thee in thy culture see The withering curse of long sterility. Rooted in England, thou hast ceased to grow Together with her growth. Thy waters flow Not with her broadening current to the sea, But murmuring their delicious melody They wander forth and wist not where they go. And thus thy fine-edged spirit, which in high Disdain hath never paltered with the pelf Of modern rapine, doth too often fly To endless crochets, wayward as an elf, Self-humouring and posturing and shy, And broods apart and lives unto itself.[2]
Hesepe, 8th June