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,
And though it cost me all the pangs of hell.
The herd shall not on thee inflict a smart,
By calling after us—“There goes a swell!”