The Economist
It must be true I love you well Since your light words are whips of Hell. But who has pain has songs to sell. My profitable Friends, farewell!
Anna Wickham
It must be true I love you well Since your light words are whips of Hell. But who has pain has songs to sell. My profitable Friends, farewell!
The speaker tells someone she loves that their careless words hit like whips from Hell. That admission sounds grim, but she quickly twists it: if pain is unavoidable, at least it gives her songs to sell. The people who wound her become “profitable Friends” because they supply material for poetry.
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