Let not thy tale tell but of stormy sorrows!
She—who was late a maid, but now doth lie
In Hymen's bosom like a rose grown pale,
A sad sweet wedded wife—why is she left
Out of the story? Are good deeds,—great griefs,
That live, but ne'er complain—nought? What are tears?
Remorse,—deceit,—at best weak water drops,
Which wash out the bloom of sorrow.