But there is something I could never bring

My soul to compass. No! could I compel

Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell

A lie to God. I'll have no wedding-ring

With loveless hands around my neck to cling;

For this were worse than all the fires of hell.

XIX.

I would not take thee from a lover's lips,

Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,

Or from the memory of a husband's shroud,