VIII
You are a devil gloating on the pain
You suffer and I suffer; you laugh shrill
Over the pangs of those pale fools, the twain
Whom we deceive, whom we shall surely kill
Whispering a word of this. Ah! joy it is
That false to faith is all the honied pressing;
A traitor triumphs in each stolen kiss,
Caligula and Cressida caressing.
You love yourself for stealing me away
From the proud lovely wife; you love me more
That in my arms a prostitute you lay,
And to your troth-plight lover played the whore
When mouth to mouth we clung, and breath for breath
Exchanged the royal accolade of death.
You suffer and I suffer; you laugh shrill
Over the pangs of those pale fools, the twain
Whom we deceive, whom we shall surely kill
Whispering a word of this. Ah! joy it is
That false to faith is all the honied pressing;
A traitor triumphs in each stolen kiss,
Caligula and Cressida caressing.
You love yourself for stealing me away
From the proud lovely wife; you love me more
That in my arms a prostitute you lay,
And to your troth-plight lover played the whore
When mouth to mouth we clung, and breath for breath
Exchanged the royal accolade of death.
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