George Meredith

Modern Love. Sonnet 14. What Soul would Bargain for a Cure that Brings

What soul would bargain for a cure that brings
Contempt the nobler agony to kill?
Rather let me bear on the bitter ill,
And strike this rusty bosom with new strings!
It seems there is another veering fit,
Since on the gold-haired lady's eyeballs pure,
I looked with little prospect of a cure,
And while her mouth's red bow loosed shafts of wit.
Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy
Has decked the woman thus? and does her head
Swim sowewhat for possessions forfeited?
Madam, you teach me many things that be.
I open an old book, and there I find
That 'Women still may love whom they deceive.'
Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave,
The game you play at is not to my mind.

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