From One Jane Austen Heroine To Another

He is no Mr. Darcy to elevate you, Elizabeth,
His silence not from shyness but from secrets.
Not shame – he proved himself shameless,
Unrepentant for his deeds, boastful at their intemperate allure
And unapologetic of his indulgence –
But calculation, a deliberate deceit born of keen awareness
That his choice must redefine his character
To anyone of sense or conscience.
Fair of face and false of heart, wickedness
Surpassing cleverness within his breast.
A liar and a user, he casts himself as victim,
A martyr to his feelings, his honor needful tithe
Upon the altar of affection, never seeing
That love esteems and respects before it adulates,
And any “love” which sacrifices either is not worthy of the name,
As he, indeed, is not worthy of the title hero.
He is no Darcy, proud and just and true –
But only Henry Crawford.