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 Who else hath had her more and called her his Than here I have her calling herself mine? I would indeed he might draw near just now, Yea, void of feigning, in some wonted way, And feel a cold look from her plant him there Outside the circle where this molten love Of her whole smile is showered upon me, And know her no more his now than mine then.

But what do I here with a thought like this? Those men I deemed my rivals—what are they To me now? Why I could put them to shame And taunt them now myself for insolent Pretenders who have never known what 'tis To conquer love.—Ay, what compared with me Seem all the famous lovers of great queens Or splendid cruel mistresses, whose woes— Deceived, betrayed, reviled—have made them shine With some bright share of every age's tears? What but mere fools? weak sufferers of wrong From creatures whom they held in their own hands?