When thinking of my pain I see her face;
the face to break my heart.
Her sharp disdain, more vicious than a mace,
makes my pride smart.
I see that she is fey,
the flaws within her play
and love her still;
I prowl about the brambles of her thrill
a wretched man.
She has destroyed my heart,
Or she has let me play my part
In its demise,
and she will never know what she has done;
to show her the poor prize
that she has won
would be mere bitterness.
I love this one for her felicity,
and want no witness to my misery.