But for a little while,—then puffs them off,
As one by one they in his estimation wane,
And turns his mind to other victories,
Nor ever cares how infinite they are,—
Yea, like the proud Atilla doth he stand,
Who counts his victims captured by the sword,
And then, with conquest filled, whets o’er his steel
And, never sated, sighs for subjects more:
Yet woman, with her heart so guileless true,
Would hold but one, and him thereto she’d cling