How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. But, in spite of his outcries and resistance, he was dragged along by Jonathan and his janizaries. Men had tried that before, but never until now had they been quick enough. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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