Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/231



Who is this I hear?—Lo, this is I, thine heart, That holds on merely now by a slender string. Strength fails me, shape and sense are rent apart, The blood in me is turned to a bitter thing, Seeing thee skulk here like a dog shivering.— Yea, and for what?—For that thy sense found sweet.— What irks it thee?—I feel the sting of it.— Leave me at peace.—Why?—Nay now, leave me at peace; I will repent when I grow ripe in wit.— I say no more.—I care not though thou cease.—