Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/52

 For wedding-water out of a noble well, Even she did bear thee, thinking of a sword, And thou wast made a man mistakingly. Nay, for I love thee, I will have thy hands, Nay, for I will not loose thee, thou art sweet, Thou art my son, I am thy father's wife, I ache toward thee with a bridal blood, The pulse is heavy in all my married veins, My whole face beats, I will feed full of thee, My body is empty of ease, I will be fed, I am burnt to the bone with love, thou shalt not go, I am heartsick, and mine eyelids prick mine eyes, Thou shalt not sleep nor eat nor say a word Till thou hast slain me. I am not good to live.

This is an evil born with all its teeth, When love is cast out of the bound of love.

There is no hate that is so hateworthy.

I pray thee turn that hate of thine my way, I hate not it nor anything of thine. Lo, maidens, how he burns about the brow, And draws the chafing sword-strap down his hand. What wilt thou do? wilt thou be worse than death? Be but as sweet as is the bitterest,