But if love be free And if you love though only for an hour Why not the cup of love? Her former friend Piqued to an interest by my love for her Came back to see if he had overlooked A beauty he would have. Well, she confessed Their night together. It was at the time My poor canzones which sang our stormy love Had just been finished. Every artist fool Writes sonnets or canzones once in his life. And so I had to add a verse to tell Her faithlessness--or was it faithlessness? Since she declared she loved me, did not love This older friend. But if she did not love him What was this act? She called it just a trial Of our love which had stood the test, O God Such mazes for my soul! Flushed then with wrath And drink I beat her cruelly. She stood With scarce a cry of pain and let me strike, And said if I considered it was just To beat her so, she wished to bear the pain. Then with a cry I ceased. We fell asleep Stretched on the bed together. When we woke She kissed me her forgiveness. I returned The kiss, ah me! So now the story turns. There was a woman critic who pursued My work with hateful words. Before I knew The cockatrice I found it best to fold This critic’s column under, never read. And in a day or two from that on which I beat my mistress, what should I behold?-- A letter from her--she had left the town Without my knowing, she was visiting This critic enemy at her summer home. And in this mail I found my poor canzones Returned to me, and in the letter this: “My friend says for some reason you would try To compromise me by this wretched verse, So I return it to you, go and burn. I shall not see you more--so she advises, And so I think. I wish you well no less. You are a little old to rise to fame, Or excellence in acting, yet go on. Perhaps there is not aught beside to do, And it will occupy your mind, good-bye.”