The Kiplings and India: A Collection of Writings from British India, 1870-1900

Cavaliere Servente (Rudyard Kipling)

(A lady laments the loss of her lover under the similitude of
a lap-dog.)

Alas for me, who loved my bow-wow well!
      So well I loved him that methought his heart
      Would never from my beauty's rule depart
And so grown certain, grew insatiable.
Now hillward he has fled. I cannot tell
      Whether Mussoorie's maids have fettered him
      Or whether Tara Deva, cloaked and dim,
Hears his devotions to another belle,
And other lips that answer tenderly
Ah me my bow-wow! I had taught thee skill;
With lore of ladies' hearts I dowered thee,
Whereon thou hast returned my favours ill,
And, breaking from my woven chain, art free,
Armed, at my hands, with all the darts that kill.

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