My Mousta, shame upon thee for this jest—
This heartless jest—this scurril mockery!
When thou wast sick to death I tended thee,
Through weary days, and weary, weary nights,
And bathed thy fevered brow, and prayed with thee,
And soothed thy pain with such poor minstrelsy
As I am mistress of—I sang to thee,
And brought thee pleasant books to help thee speed
The lagging hours of thy recovery.
Has my heart seemed to thee so stony hard