O Muse! Thou art the cruelest mistress who
Draws breath: to show thyself unveil\'d unto
Mine eye and to deny my passion thus awaked –
To let me be enchanted by thy form
And to reject that courtship, which does spring
From that raw flame alone which thou thyself
Didst once engender – by thy will – in me;
If purest longing, burning, of a love-
Sick soul e\'er slew, as oft those who had their
Fay love of thee requited have assur\'d me,
Why live I still? Unless my love for thee
Is, as thine for me, dead and cold and still.
If thou didst hate me so, why bare thy breast
To me and make me love thee, love thee so?