<h2>XXXII</h2>
<p>The first time that the sun rose on thine oath<br/>
To love me, I looked forward to the moon<br/>
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon<br/>
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.<br/>
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;<br/>
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one<br/>
For such man’s love!—more like an out-of-tune<br/>
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth<br/>
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,<br/>
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.<br/>
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed<br/>
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float<br/>
’Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,—<br/>
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.</p>
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