Say, would you change for all the wealth possestBy rich Achaemenes or Phrygia's heir,Or the full stores of Araby the blest,One lock of her dear hair,While to your burning lips she bends her neck,Or with kind cruelty denies the dueShe means you not to beg for, but to take,Or snatches it from you?Black day he chose for planting thee,Accurst he rear'd thee from the ground,The bane of children yet to be,The scandal of the village round.His father's throat the monster press'dBeside, and on his hearthstone spilt,I ween, the blood of midnight guest;Black Colchian drugs, whate'er of guiltIs hatch'd on earth, he dealt in all—Who planted in my rural steadThee, fatal wood, thee, sure to fallUpon thy blameless master's head.