Yea, and the scorn she had of me
⁠In the old time, doubtless vexed her then.
I never should have kissed her. See
⁠What fools God's anger makes of men!

She might have loved me a little too,
⁠Had I been humbler for her sake.
But that new shame could make love new
⁠She saw not—yet her shame did make.

I took too much upon my love,
⁠Having for such mean service done
Her beauty and all the ways thereof,
⁠Her face and all the sweet thereon.

Yea, all this while I tended her,
⁠I know the old love held fast his part:
I know the old scorn waxed heavier,
⁠Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart.

It may be all my love went wrong—
⁠A scribe's work writ awry and blurred,
Scrawled after the blind evensong—
⁠Spoilt music with no perfect word.

But surely I would fain have done
⁠All things the best I could. Perchance
Because I failed, came short of one,
⁠She kept at heart that other man's.