Oscar Wilde's poem

 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 cold.

  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