Blame him, the vaunted sage, who knew her mind
Peer to his own in skill and wit refined,
Yet left the after-ages to bemoan
The waste of woman worth that dawned and die unknown.
XIV.
And deep the shame on man’s insensate heart
For later woman doomed to hideous part;
Poor lostling, bowed with worse than brutal woes,—
To her not even dealt the brute’s repose;
Her sweetness sullied, and her frame disgraced,