A mere caprice for thee has got;
So bathed in tears, in my distress,
I envy thee thy lot.
And there the while, with daring heel,
Thou tread’st in arrant confidence,
Without a heart or hope to feel,
Or instinct’s common sense.
In the embraces, which my thought,
Not even in its boldest vein,
Could scarce to hope for have been brought,