Then.
He loved her, and through many years, Had paid his fair devoted court, Until she wearied, and with sneers Turned
all his ardent love to sport.
That night within his chamber lone, He long sat writing by his bed A note in which his heart made moan For love;
the morning found him dead.
Now.
Like him, a man of later day Was jilted by the maid he sought, And from her presence turned away, Consumed by
burning, bitter thought.
He sought his room to write—a curse Like him before and die, I ween. Ah no, he put his woes in verse, And
sold them to a magazine.
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