Cut Off

This is no lamentation here,
Or would not be, except I must
Say something to release the fear
Of being scattered in the dust.
The Cavendishes ditched me;
All company did shun me,
And rank was I to all that passed on by.

There is no currency in love,
For all with burning hearts will be
Consumed by fire from above,
When clouds have covered by decree
The gifts they once would show you,
Be all too pleased to tell you;
And as they die, in sorrow sleeping lie.

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