I cannot even be faithful to the past, For, manlike, you deny it’s ever been. And I must keep you curious to the last, Else will you find some newer minikin. I know the seven green withes will never hold Against your strength, when once you try to break; But I pretend belief in all you’ve told While I am playing falsely for your sake. Thus from my treason comes the paradox, That when unfaithful to you, I am true. My colors change as often as the phlox, Its evening purple, in morning frost pale blue. And if you ask my purpose, I’ll reply, “Someone would be unfaithful, why not I?”
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