Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear;
And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by,
And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair,
And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie,
My doom is this: my joy was quick to die.
The chain of custom in the drowsy lair
Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear,
And both abhorr'd it,—thou as well as I.
Ah, God! 'tis tearful true; and I repent;
And like a dead, live man I live for this:—
To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss,
And be my own most piteous monument.
What! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss?
There, take it back; and frown; and be content!