Phaedra (Wharton)

NOT that on me the Cyprian fury fell, Last martyr of my love-ensanguined race; Not that my children drop the averted face When my name shames the silence; not that hell Holds me where nevermore his glance shall dwell Nightlong between my lids, my pulses race Through flying pines the tempest of the chase, Nor my heart rest with him beside the well.

Not that he hates me; not, O baffled gods -- Not that I slew him! -- yet, because your goal Is always reached, nor your rejoicing rods Fell ever yet upon insensate clods, Know, the one pang that makes your triumph whole Is, that he knows the baseness of my soul.