To marry would be mad, would upset my disposition,
Where Jealousy takes tithes, where each outward indiscretion
On her part (a jest played on my head
By my heart) will let me be misled
Into glimpsing that her eyes, until then my sweet possession,
On another body brushed then returned with their confession.
To marry may be mad, but if Love should draw her sabre,
Should fiercely sever sense, it would leave her the enslaver
Of my pride, my will bound, in defeat,
By her side. Then she would charge, replete
In her chinkless armour plate, as Achilles round the city
Dragged great Hector, body bruised, proudly lacking noblest pity.
The wedding bells ring wild and they call for my decision:
To be a married man or consider a revision
Of my choice; but ordered to return
By her voice, too late, then do I learn
That the choice was never mine, she would not allow disaster.
Was there ever woman wed who was not the ruling master?
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