Ay, better, at my home in Hell,
To set for ay a burning spell
’Twixt me and memory, Rosaline!
Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,
Wherein such blessed memories,
Such pitying forgiveness lies,
Than hate more bitter, Rosaline!
Woe’s me! I know that love so high
As thine, true soul, could never die,
And with mean clay in church-yard lie—