that my soul to Satan his soul might chase:”
a remark in the strain of Heathcliff. Most of his lovers love passionately and sensuously, and only passionately and sensuously: The poet “revels in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed girl:” if one thing is harder to forgive to a successful rival than another it is that
“he has held her long in his arms,
and has kissed her over and over again:”
his chief regret over a dear dead girl is
“for the red that never was fairly kiss’d—
for the white that never was fairly press’d:”
and, when he leaves his love for ever, he is in anguish at the thought that
“’twill, doubtless, be another’s lot