Though you are gone and I am left alone,
With but this shadow by my body thrown,
And nothing more;
Though you are gone, and I am feeling poor,
Yet still the root is fed
Of my self-love, and but the leaves are dead.

But if, when I am old, and in the street
With a new love that's young, we three should meet;
And she should say,
'Who's that old hag that stares so hard this way?' -
What answer should she meet?
May I drop dead in pity at your feet!