And honoured the blank spot on which I fell.
But now—O heart!—how much dishonoured I,
And by my own hand too—twice bitter case—
My true love stained with secret infamy,
My treachery disguised by friendship's face,
And that bare passion bade me forth to die
Fouled to the instrument of my disgrace!
II.
What has a man but honour? When 'tis gone
The man is gone: for all that in him blent