If your loved one prove unworthy, why then,
by this much you're the freer: if the block
to which you're bolted warp and shrink away,
why then, it only gives you further play,
makes life rough for you, of course, with its knock
and rattle, with defections' loud sudden
jars, but your own quiet integrity,
tried thus the more, has but more room to be.
So says one truth, but soon says another:
Now in your soul-tissues a wrong sap stains
the white rose that you were; your heart sustains
the wild-thorn traits of your grafted partner:
when the mistaken marriage mortifies,
it's your own branch and stem and root that dies.