Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 2.pdf/232

And then, as grapes within a press
Are trod, I’d tread them; penniless
Should they be left, and foul worms feed
Upon them in their direful need,
Whilst on a dunghill should they lie
Naked, in filth and misery.
And those who, in my prosperous days,
Were foremost in my love and praise,13620
Would I most cruelly entreat,
And spurn like dogs beneath my feet,
Aye, grind them to the very earth,
And pill them till they were not worth
A clove of garlick—it would fain
My heart to see their need and pain,
And bring them to such dire distress
That they should on my footsteps press
Stamping with rage.
Regrets are vain Regrets are vain;
Time flown can ne’er return again,13630
Nor could I, of all those who bowed
Before me ere my face was ploughed
With wrinkles, keep on one my hold,
My menace was a tale that’s told,
But, by the ribalds, I thereof
Was warned erewhile with many a scoff.
Believe you, much I wept therefor,
Aye, and shall weep for evermore,
Yet, when thereon I musing think,
Long draughts of joy supreme I drink13640
From memory’s well. Oh, dear delights!
Whereof the very thought excites
A thrill through every limb, as though
The merry life of long ago