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.