In vain complaining elegies he writ,
  And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve,
And sang in quavers how his heart was split,
  Constant beneath her lattice with each eve;
She mock’d his wooing with her wicked wit,
  And slash’d his suit so that it matched his sleeve,
Till he grew silent at the vesper star,
And, quite despairing, hamstring’d his guitar.

VII.

Bianca’s heart was coldly frosted o’er
  With snows unmelting—­an eternal sheet,
But his was red within him, like the core
  Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat;
And oft he longed internally to pour
  His flames and glowing lava at her feet,
But when his burnings he began to spout. 
She stopp’d his mouth, and put the crater out.

VIII.

Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men,
  So thin, he seem’d a sort of skeleton-key
Suspended at death’s door—­so pale—­and then
  He turn’d as nervous as an aspen tree;
The life of man is three score years and ten,
  But he was perishing at twenty-three,
For people truly said, as grief grew stronger,
“It could not shorten his poor life—­much longer.”

IX.

For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed,
  Nor relished any kind of mirth below;
Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head,
  Love had become his universal foe,
Salt in his sugar—­nightmare in his bed,
  At last, no wonder wretched Julio,
A sorrow-ridden thing, in utter dearth
Of hope,—­made up his mind to cut her girth!

X.

For hapless lovers always died of old,
  Sooner than chew reflection’s bitter cud;
So Thisbe stuck herself, what time ’tis told,
  The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood;
And so poor Sappho when her boy was cold,
  Drown’d her salt tear drops in a salter flood,
Their fame still breathing, tho’ their breath be past,
For those old suitors lived beyond their last.

XI.

So Julio went to drown,—­when life was dull,
  But took his corks, and merely had a bath;
And once he pull’d a trigger at his skull,
  But merely broke a window in his wrath;
And once, his hopeless being to annul,
  He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath,
A line so ample, ’twas a query whether
’Twas meant to be a halter or a tether.

XII.

Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust
  His sorrows thro’—­’tis horrible to die! 
And come down, with our little all of dust,
  That dun of all the duns to satisfy: 
To leave life’s pleasant city as we must,
  In Death’s most dreary spunging-house to lie,
Where even all our personals must go
To pay the debt of nature that we owe!