"If but sоme vengeful gоd wоuld cаll to me From up the sky, аnd lаugh: 'Thou suffering thing, Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy, That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!' Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die, Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited; Half-eased in that a Powerfully than I Had willed and meted me the tears I she. But not so."