“She mocked, she scorned, and she hated me,
She shall pity me not,” he said;
“Too late for the nether way of hate,
I may flout her when I’m dead.”
Out in the dark of the moonless sky,
The rope was round his neck,
“’Tis the torque of gold from her throat so cold,
Why should I rue or reck?”
Tighter tangled the hempen cord;
“’Tis her fingers hot with fire,