 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
194
MALICE.
White Devil! turn from me thy louring eye,Let thy lean lip unwreathe its bitter smile,
Down thine own throat I force its still-born lie,
And teach thee to digest it in thy bile,—
But I will merrily mock at thee the while:
Such venom cannot harm me; for I sit
On a fair hill of name, and power, and purse,
Too high for any shaft of thine to hit,
Beyond the petty reaching of thy curse,
Strong in good purpose, praise, and pregnant wit:
Husband thy hate for toads of thine own level,
I breathe an atmosphere too rare for thee:
And know thou this,—I'll crush thee, sorry devil,
If ever again thou wag thy tongue at me.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |