"The woman is dead that was none of his;
And the man that was none of hers may go!"
There's only the past left: worry that!
Wreak, like a bull, on the empty coat,
Rage, its late wearer is laughing at!
Tear the collar to rags, having missed his throat;
Strike stupidly on—"This, this and this,
Where I would that a bosom received the blow!"
I ought to have done more: once my speech,
And once your answer, and there, the end,