Go, Get Thee Gone. I Love Thee Not, I Swear; And If I Lov'D Thee Well In Days Gone By, And If I Kiss'D, And Trifled With Thy Hair, And Crown'D My Love, To Prove The Same A Lie, My Doom Is This: My Joy Was Quick To Die. The Chain Of Custom In The Drowsy Lair Of Some Slain Vision, Is A Weight To Bear, And Both Abhorr'D It, - Thou As Well As I. Ah, God! 'Tis Tearful True; And I Repent; And Like A Dead, Live Man I Live For This: - To Stand, Unvalued, On A Dream'S Abyss, And Be My Own Most Piteous Monument. What! Did I Rob Thee, Lady, Of A Kiss? There, Take It Back; And Frown; And Be Content!