A Lovers' Tale by Maurice Hewlett

Now the poet of whom I spoke a long time ago as having his own idea of Cormac's affair, singing about his troth broken on his wedding-day, says:

"But of this matter, when Cormac, Betroth'd, handfasted as he was, Lover accepted, yet drew back At the last hour, a thing unchancy -- Witch-finders hint at spell or curse Upon the plighting. Each man has His own curse in him, and my fancy Sees Cormac storing her to heart To sing about in sounding verse, Making a goddess of a lass, Not better but so much the worse The more herself has art and part In the business. Call this nigromancy Done by the spae-wife out of spite -- I tell you, Love's a tricksy sprite For poets' bosoms. Love says, Kiss Your well-belov'd, she'll kiss again, Apt pupil; but it's also true The more you kiss, the more you strain Together, the less lover you, And the more she. Skald's wisdom is To love apart, since love is pain At all events, howe'er you do; And out of pain that Song cometh The which you live by, as by bread Live some, and other some by kiss (As women all). Where there are two, And one a poet, one must rue. Here it was Stangerd, as the case is Whene'er a girl accepts the embraces Of poet-lover."