Sonnet CCXXIV:
I heard today that one, who sometime reigned
The hauty mistress of my captive will,
Had of that mortal cup which none may spill,
The last and bitterest dregs of torpor drained.
Of all her beauty in my mind remained
A spectral memory—a shudder chill
For her who shared a history of ill,
But nothing more of what was lost or gained.
Now Death makes merry with her crimson lips;
Alas! my lady, have you e’er a smile,
As round your waist his bony arm he slips?
Where is your falsehood now, your art, your guile,
That gave my feet so many grievous trips—
Your acted love, so shallow, sad, and vile?
