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Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword.
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of lust,
Some with the hands of gold,
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow old.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
—Oscar Wilde
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