The Bereaved Avenges Herself against a Selfish Lover

I may love you, once love is all I have; someday, with tears I'll wash away your grave: till then I curse you since you died at last, leaving me broke, alone, going nowhere fast. Despite young Cupid, I won't bring you flowers; or bathe you in dripping-wet, sparkling showers of worship; or grant you the gold of chaise, that gilts your summit-peaking thrones of maize. Instead, I'll bring you a wreathe of barbed wires; flame it! like a thousand nuclear pyres; hang it upon your cruel member, like so! And watch it burn, then cauterize, it slow. Selfish Lover! You stole from me life's measure of passion and unfathomable pleasure. For that, therefore, I've the evil delight, knowing your digit stands no more upright!