a farther paſſion feeds my thoughts, With ceaſeleſſe and diſconſolate conceits, Which dies my lookes so liueleſſe as they are, And might, if my extreames had ful euents, Make me the gaſtly counterfeit of death.

The loss of the reduplicative syllable in the perfect is sufficiently accounted for by the same occurrence in almost all the modern, and even some of the ancient branches of the Indo-Germanic family.

I am going to my own hearth-stone, / Bosomed in yon green hills alone,

Their deaths were sobering not merely because of the searingly unbearable wrench of losing those two wonderful people, but because it left me exposed as rudderless.