A LOVE-CURSE.
I
Fare thee ill—and not well! And whenever, hereafter,
The world in my presence shall speak of a knave,
And utter his name, amid curses or laughter,
As greatest or meanest—half tyrant, half slave;
I will tell them of thee, till they're forced to confess
That none can be greater, as none can be less.
II
With the tale of thy deeds shall the pure air be tainted;
And lips that have named thee, need balsams to free;
And villains more monstrous than thought ever painted
Shall seem but as pigmies when measured with thee.
Fare thee ill—and not well! And till life shall depart,
May Misery track thee wherever thou art!
