To George Anson Byron(?)
AND, dost thou ask the reason of my sadness?Well, I will tell it thee, unfeeling boy!'Twas ill report that urged my brain to madness,'Twas thy tongue's venom poisoned all my joy.
The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow;My wounds are far too deep for simple grief;The heart thus withered, seeks in vain to borrowFrom calm reflection, comfort or relief.
The arrow's flown, and dearly shalt thou rue it;No mortal hand can rid me of my pain:My heart is pierced, but thou canst not subdue it--Revenge is left, and is not left in vain.
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