And yet I am no fitting mate for thee.
Thou, a great lord—rich, honoured, and beloved—
I, a poor simple, untaught, peasant girl!
Yet bear with me—my love shall plague thee little,
Though ever and anon I come to thee,
With faltering step and tearful downcast eyes,
A timid suppliant for such alms of love
As thou in thy good-will mayst grant to me.
So, when thou seest, kneeling at thy feet,
Thy poor, mad, love-sick, trusting, trembling wife,