That perjured tongue, which promised thee its troth,
Did plant within my heart a poison'd seed,
And nourished it with sweet and sugared broth,
To cover up its perfidy and greed.
The serpent's hiss is music to the ear
When uttered from a source we hold so dear,
And every false account and subtle sneer,
Did but increase my fond and foolish fear.
But now, with reason's sharp and bitter blade,
I cut away the lies that you have spun,
And find the truth in shadows you have made,
Like winter's fading promise of the sun.
And though the wound will ache and never mend,
Thy faithless heart can no more me offend.
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