O, She Misused Me Past The Endurance

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.

Prophet May You Be! If I Be False, Or Swerve A Hair From Truth, When Time Is Old And Hath Forgot Itself, When Waterdrops Have Worn The Stones Of Troy, And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up, And Mighty States Characterless Are Grated To Dusty Nothing, Yet Let Memory, From False To False, Among False Maids In Love, Upbraid My Falsehood!

Like One Who Having Into Truth, By Telling Of It, Made Such A Sinner Of His Memory, To Credit His Own Lie.

I'll Look To Like; If Looking, Liking Move.