Remorse.

Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear; And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by, And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair, And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie, My doom is this: my joy was quick to die. The chain of custom in the drowsy lair Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear, And both abhorr'd it,—thou as well as I. Ah, God! 'tis tearful true; and I repent; And like a dead, live man I live for this:— To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss, And be my own most piteous monument. What! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss? There, take it back; and frown; and be content!