Classic Poem

At board and-banquet have I been a jest,
And whoso chose might point a gibe at me;
Full five years didst thou my stanch service test,
Now shalt thou bite thy nails to find me free.

I mind not tears — unmoved by trick so stale;
Cynthia, thy tears from artful motives flow;
I weep to part, but wrongs o'er sobs prevail;
'T is thou hast dealt love's yoke its crushing blow.

Threshold, adieu, that pitied my distress,
And door that took no hurt from angered hand;
But thee, false woman, may the inroads press
Of years, whose wrack in vain wilt thou withstand.

Ay, seek to pluck the hoar hairs from their root; —
Lo, how the mirror chides thy wrinkled face!
Now is thy turn to reap pride's bitter fruit,
And find thyself in the despised one's place:

Thrust out, in turn, to realize disdain,
And, what thou didst in bloom, when sere lament:
Such doom to thee foretells my fateful strain;
Hear, then, and fear, thy beauty's punishment.