Through drink, as he will lose it. He is dying,
Death comes of Sin—what plainer truth than this?
Sin blinds, too, for that brow could comprehend
All things by using what God gave to it.
I do not know his name, with your permission
I'll search his pockets—yes, here is a letter—
No signature, looks like a draught—I'll read:
"Why have you wounded me with words like these:
'He has great genius but no moral sense,'
And written to another! Oh my love!