I hate my neighbour with bitter hate—

Night and morning, early and late,

Her and her works to the Fiend I commend;

For she’s had it mended—the garden gate.

For every comer ’twould grind and squeak;

But when One came here who had most to seek

It would cry aloud at his hasty shove,

‘Here, here’s your lover!’ and redden my cheek.

Oh yes, he still comes, though the gate doesn’t tell—

But I wish my neighbour were deep in Hell.

How dare she the least of my joys estrange,

Or threat me with changes when all’s so well?