What soul would bargain for a cure that brings <br /> Contempt the nobler agony to kill? <br /> Rather let me bear on the bitter ill, <br /> And strike this rusty bosom with new stings! <br /> It seems there is another veering fit <br /> Since on a gold-haired lady's eyeballs pure, <br /> I looked with little prospect of a cure, <br /> The while her mouth's red bow loosed shafts of wit. <br /> Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy <br /> Has decked the woman thus? and does her head <br /> Swim somewhat for possessions forfeited? <br /> Madam, you teach me many things that be. <br /> I open an old book, and there I find <br /> That "Women still may love whom they deceive." <br /> Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave, <br /> The game you play at is not to my mind.<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/modern-love-xiv/
