These proofs of love—they seem to mock it;
There, false one, take your lock of hair—
Nay, do not ask me for the locket.
Insidious girl! that wily tear
Is useless now, that all is ended:
There is thy curl—nay, do not sneer,
The locket’s—somewhere—being mended.
The dressing-case you lately gave
Was fit, I know, for Bagdad’s caliph;
I used it only once to shave,