Paris and Oenone

She asks me what I want, and I respond,
“Your lips, your eyes, your hair, your everything –
Along with a renewal of our bond
And all the sweet assurance that will bring.”
And then she says, “My life, my love, my man,
I will renew our sacred bond, but you
Must with sincerity completely scan
Your heart in this. Has it been wholly true?”
“My dove,” I say, “This finger and its ring
Cut from my hand if what I swear to be
The truth be otherwise, and for that fling
Them in the grave of our dead love, I plea.”
“My man, your words go much too far; I sense
You’re much too like a poet in defence.”