Beneath the first fierce humbling of the storm,
Floods o’er my memory yet with half the woe
That overwhelm’d me then. Am I, I thought,
So strong in love, and waiting long for it,
And always true to it, to be outweigh’d
By mere brute chaff of manhood, on the stage
Or in the pit? I swore ’twas ever so
With all her sex. Worth never weigh’d a straw.
A very satyr could outwoo a sage.—
Weak woman!—yet she must be weak—in brain