Revenge

I would not, in the wildness of revenge, Give poison to mine enemy, nor strike My dagger to his heart, but I would plant Love--burning--hopeless--and unquenchable-- Within the inmost foldings of his breast, And bid him die the dark, and ling'ring death, Of the pale victims, who expire beneath The pow'r of that deep passion. Earth can show No bitterness like this !--The shroud of thought Which gathers round them, gloomy as the grave;-- The wasting, but unpitied pangs, which wear The frame away, and make the tortur'd mind Almost a chaos in its agony;-- The writhings of the spirit, doom'd to see A rival bless'd;-and utter, cold, despair :- These are its torments !-Are they not enough To satisfy the most remorseless hate?