Add to my cup one drop of bitterness?
Her luxuries made not my comforts less.
I know it now, though my deluded heart
Would then have scorned its weakness to confess;
Envy had fixed within his venomed dart,
And love had no sweet balm to heal the wounded part.
Hate’s ready weapon, ridicule, I sought,
The lightest word may give the deepest wound,—
Montoro’s sparkling wit the impulse caught,
His jests, by malice circulated round,