It is no vulgar nature I have wived. 
Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound 
Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned, 
And not a thought of vengeance had survived. 
No confidences has she: but relief 
Must come to one whose suffering is acute. 
O have a care of natures that are mute! 
They punish you in acts: their steps are brief. 
What is she doing? What does she demand 
From Providence or me? She is not one 
Long to endure this torpidly, and shun 
The drugs that crowd about a woman's hand. 
At Forfeits during snow we played, and I 
Must kiss her. 'Well performed!' I said: then she: 
''Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?' 
Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!