Classic Poem

Let other maids, whose eyes less prosperous prove,
Publish my weakness, and condemn my love:
Exult, my heart! at last the queen of joy,
Won by the music of her votary's strain,
Leads to the couch of bliss herself the boy,
And bids enjoyment thrill in every vein:
Last night entranc'd in ecstasy we lay,
And chid the quick, too quick return of day!
But stop my hand! beware what loose you scrawl,
Lest into curious hands the billet fall.
No—the remembrance charms!—begone, grimace!
Matrons! be yours formality of face.
Know, with a youth of worth, the night I spent,
And cannot, cannot, for my soul repent!