And something more than praise to you I gave -
Something which made you know me as your slave.
Yet slaves, at times, grow mutinous and rebel.
Here in this morning hour, from you apart,
The mood is on me to be frank and tell
The thoughts long hidden deep down in my heart.
These thoughts are bitter--thorny plants, that grew
Below the flowers of praise I plucked for you.
Those flowery praises led you to suppose
You were my benefactor. Well, in truth,
When lovely woman on dull man bestows
Sweet favours of her beauty and her youth,
He is her debtor. I am yours: and yet
You robbed me while you placed me thus in debt.
I owe you for keen moments when you stirred
My senses with your beauty, when your eyes
(Your wanton eyes) belied the prudent word
Your curled lips uttered. You are worldly wise,
And while you like to set men's hearts on flame,
You take no risks in that old passion-game.
The carnal, common self of dual me
Found pleasure in this danger play of yours.
(An egotist, man always thinks to be
The victor, if his patience but endures,
And holds in leash the hounds of fierce desire,
Until the silly woman's heart takes fire.
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