Modern Love: XIX

By George Meredith

No state is enviable. To the luck alone
Of some few favoured men I would put claim.
I bleed, but her who wounds I will not blame.
Have I not felt her heart as ‘t were my own
Beat thro’ me? could I hurt her? heaven and hell!
But I could hurt her cruelly! Can I let 
My Love’s old time-piece to another set,
Swear it can’t stop, and must for ever swell?
Sure, that’s one way Love drifts into the mart
Where goat-legged buyers throng. I see not plain:
My meaning is, it must not be again.
Great God! the maddest gambler throws his heart.
If any state be enviable on earth,
‘Tis yon born idiot’s, who, as days go by,
Still rubs his hands before him, like a fly,
In a queer sort of meditative mirth. 
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