I poison hers—but still she is my bride.
She shudders at my all-polluting touch—
She loathes my mean and miserable soul:
What matters it, so that she be my bride?”
Oh, purblind fool—thy plot so subtly laid
Is laid too subtly—and the cunning snare
That trapped thy bird is laid too cunningly;
For as it made me thy poor prisoner,
So shall it hold me from thy deadly grasp
For ever and for ever! Raise thine head,