To murder the one you love is a crime of deeper grade
Than mine, yet in purple you walk on the earth a queen;
I think the wages of sin are very unequally paid.

For what did you receive when you sold yourself for his gold,
When with guilty loathing you plighted your white, false hand,
A palace in town and country, his name long centuries old,
A carriage with coachmen and footmen, wealth in broad tracts
of land,
Wealth in coffers and vaults, high station, the family gems,
For these you stood at God's altar and swore to a lie;
But smother your conscience to silence if it condemns,
With this you are liberally paid for your life of infamy.

What wages did I receive when I gave myself for his love,
So young, so weak, and loving him, loving him so--
What did I get for my sin, O merciful God above!
But the terrible, terrible wages--pain and want and woe;
The world's scorn, and my own contempt and disdain,
The hideous hue of guilt that stares in every eye.
Like you I cannot 'broider with gold my garments' stain,
You see, my lady, you get far better wages than I.

In your constancy to sin you far exceed my power,
Since that day marked with blackness from other days--
The day before your marriage--never since that hour
Have I heard his voice, have I looked upon his face;
For I threw his gold at his feet and stole away
Anywhere--anywhere--only out of his sight,
Longing to hide from the mocking glare of the day,