My misery chokes my life!
And thou, the cause of all,
Dost sit and walk, and, mocking on the strife,
Kiss hands to every fopling of the ball!
Chit, you are carrying honey in your palm;
Beware thy steps! What! see it fall to ground.
Waste, and be lost, which were the balm
Of such a wound as mine—of all this wound!
What did I mutter while by thee I stood?
I muttered, "Dragging her to shameful shade,
Shall I let forth the battle of my blood
On those white plains?"———Art not afraid?
'Twere but to leap a thought even now! sand holds this sea;
By paper is confined this fire: beware!
Myself I honour, while I honour thee;
In every act of thine is held a double care.
Fiends whisper, " Warn her not! Let fate proceed!
And vanity were daunted for all time."
In some sort 'twere a charitable deed:
Make it a sacrifice, and 'tis sublime!
But no, though thou art silly, shallow, vain,
'Twere pity to despoil a thing so fair.
Will it be done? Or shall I still refrain?
O silly creature, suffer me to spare!