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 Devi, 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.