Nor can I sport a single pair of gloves.
Gladly I’d wander o’er the verdant lawn,
Where graze contentedly the fleecy flock;
But can I show myself in gills so torn,
Or brave the public gaze in such a stock?
I know thou’lt answer me that love is blind,
And faults in one it worships can’t perceive;
It must be sightless, truly, not to find
The hole that’s gaping in my threadbare sleeve.
Farewell, my love—for, oh! by heaven, we part,