Wert thou she who in her pride Swore her days on earth should end, If she did not love her friend More than all she loved beside? Wert thou she who to me showed How she loved with such good-will, That, although I was her ill, She did hold me for her good? Oh if but I could thee hate As thou hatest me, thy name Would I brand with fitting shame, Since thou'rt thankless and ingrate; Yet it useless is for me Thus to hate thee and disdain, Love to me is greater gain Than forgetfulness to thee. To my singing sad lament, To my springtime winter's snow, To my laughter bitter woe Thy relentless hand hath sent It has changed my joyous dress To the garb of those that mourn, Love's soft flower to poignant thorn, Love's sweet fruit to bitterness. Thou wilt say--thereat I bleed-- That thy marriage to this swain, Thy forgetfulness again, Is a noble honest deed; If it were not known to thee That in thy betrothal hour My life ended evermore, Then I might admit thy plea. But thy pleasure in a word Pleasure was; but 'twas not just, Since my faith and loyal trust Did but earn unjust reward; For my faith, since it doth see How to show its faithfulness, Wanes not through thy fickleness, Faints not through my misery. None will wonder--surely no man, When he comes to know the truth, Seeing that I am a youth, And, Silveria, thou art woman; Ever in her, we believe, Hath its home inconstancy; Second nature 'tis to me Thus to suffer and to grieve. Thee a wedded bride I view Now repentant, making moan, For it is a fact well known That thou wilt in naught be true; Gladly seek the yoke to bear That thou on thy neck didst cast, For thou may'st it hate at last, But for ever 'twill be there. Yet so fickle is thy state, And thy mood is so severe, That what yesterday was dear Thou must needs to-morrow hate; Hence in some mysterious way, 'Lovely 'midst her fickleness, Fickle 'midst her loveliness,' He who speaks of thee will say.