It’s a bitter draught that I must drain
To the very dregs below
Your words doth cleft my heart in twain
But a Queen no pain may show.
Call it pride, and well you may,
For my pride is sore abased.
Where is your love of yesterday?
How can such passion be erased?
Now I know how Medea did feel
When faced with Creon’s child.
My love, to your soul I do appeal -
I
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