Through the untempered iron ere 't was proof:

I am the rock man worth ten times the crude,—

Would woman see what this declines to see,

Declines to say "I see,"—the officious word

That makes the thing, pricks on the soul to shoot

New fire into the half-used cinder, flesh!

Therefore 't is she begins with wronging me,

Who cannot but begin with hating her.

Our marriage follows: there she stands again!

Why do I laugh? Why, in the very gripe