He

Inertia. My young veins were rife With manhood’s ardent blood; and love was fire Within me. But you met my strong desire With lips like frozen rose leaves—chaste, so chaste That all your splendid beauty seemed but waste Of love’s materials. Then of that beauty Which had so pleased my sight You seemed to take no care; you felt no duty To keep yourself an object of delight For lover’s-eyes; and appetite And indolence soon wrought Their devastating changes. You were not The woman I had sworn to love and cherish. If love is starved, what can love do but perish? Now will you speak of my first fatal sin And all that followed, even as I have done?