Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play? <br /> <br />'What play?' Why, this old play of winning hearts! <br /> <br />Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way: <br /> <br />'Tis all in vain—I know thee and thine arts. <br /> <br />Let us be frank, Isaura. I have made <br /> <br />A study of thee; and while I admire <br /> <br />The practised skill with which thy plans are laid, <br /> <br />I can but wonder if thou dost not tire. <br /> <br />Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth! <br /> <br />When overlong the season runs, I find <br /> <br />Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death, <br /> <br />After a time do pall upon my mind. <br /> <br />Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes <br /> <br />To read the story thou hast read so oft— <br /> <br />Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs, <br /> <br />Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft? <br /> <br />Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee, <br /> <br />The scene that follows? Hearts are much the same; <br /> <br />The loves of men but vary in degree— <br /> <br />They find no new expressions for the flame. <br /> <br />Thou must know all they utter ere they speak, <br /> <br />As I know Hamlet's part, whoever plays. <br /> <br />Oh, does it not seem sometimes poor and weak? <br /> <br />I think thou must grow weary of their ways. <br /> <br />I pity thee, Isaura! I would be <br /> <br />The humblest maiden with her dream untold <br /> <br />Rather than live a Queen of Hearts, like thee, <br /> <br />And find life's rarest treasures stale and old. <br /> <br />I pity thee; for now, let come what may, <br /> <br />Fame, glory, riches, yet life will lack all. <br /> <br />Wherewith can salt be salted? And what way <br /> <br />Can life be seasoned after love doth pall?<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/isaura/
