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 Yea, and the scorn she had of me In the old time, doubtless vexed her then. I never should have kissed her. See What fools God's anger makes of men!

She might have loved me a little too, Had I been humbler for her sake. But that new shame could make love new She saw not—yet her shame did make.

I took too much upon my love, Having for such mean service done Her beauty and all the ways thereof, Her face and all the sweet thereon.

Yea, all this while I tended her, I know the old love held fast his part: I know the old scorn waxed heavier, Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart.

It may be all my love went wrong— A scribe's work writ awry and blurred, Scrawled after the blind evensong— Spoilt music with no perfect word.

But surely I would fain have done All things the best I could. Perchance Because I failed, came short of one, She kept at heart that other man's.