Go,
Find someone who can love you better,
My love would be but a passing splendor,
An ember in your heart,
That dries you to a husk,

My love is neither sweet nor pure,
It is bitter bile,
Made to feed the weak and infirm of heart,
To tease the lass,
And flutter the maiden's lashes,

I am but a devil set upon this earth,
To bring sweet dreams and fleeting love,
And to find naught but ashes for myself.