To and fro shifts upon my cheek the color,
And tears that glide adown in stealth reveal
By what slow fires mine inmost self consumeth.
“I burn, whether he quarrel o’er his wine,
Stain with a bruise dishonoring thy white shoulders,
Or whether my boy-rival on thy lips
Leave by a scar the mark of his rude kisses.
“Hope not, if thou wouldst hearken unto me,
That one so little kind prove always constant;
Barbarous indeed, to wound sweet lips imbued