Your talk was most in praise of these poor features,
And of my body—not unequalled 'mongst God's creatures.
And even did your courteous fancy find
Some small perfection in a woman's mind.
But of my soul, sir, not a word!
Till your quite reasonable anger stirred
To bring our love to sudden wreck.
'Twas then you stayed my ecstasies
With truth! Which ended in this wise:—
“Woman! Your soul's a stone about your neck.”

Maybe our love had happier consummation
Had this part known more quick consideration!