“PAINT me,” you said, “a poem; give to me
A breathing thought that I may keep to kiss!”
While that low laugh that aye a mandate is
Nestled upon your lips. Call memory
To that fair moment when you heard my plea,
And in the tumult of my arms' warm bliss,
Like a frail floweret that is crushed amiss.
You thrilled to frenzied life exultantly,
And all your body pulsed with love's desire!
Can I in words that perfect hour rehearse,
Or write the vehemence of veins on fire?
My lips would only kiss—and you require

The amorous youth, whose tender breast
Was by his darling Cat possest,
Obtain'd of Venus his desire,
Howe'er irregular his fire:
Nature the power of love obey'd,
The Cat became a blushing maid,
And on the happy change the boy
Employ'd his wonder and his joy.
Take care, O beauteous child, take care,
Lest thou prefer so rash a prayer,
Nor vainly hope the queen of love,
Will e'er thy favourite's charms improve.
O quickly from her shrine retreat,
Or tremble for thy darling's fate.
The queen of love, who soon will see

Imagination cannot rise above thee;
Near and afar I see thee, and I love thee;
My misery away from me I thrust it,
For thy perfection I behold, and trust it.

Put aside that song of love,
do not fill my heart with pain -
I'm young but I don't know of youth
and if I did I wouldn't claim
the thing I trample underfoot
before you, and begin to hate.
Forget about the time I craved
a gentle glance, a sigh or two:
you had me chained up like a slave -
and for a single smile from you
the world filled me with wild disgust
and I cast my feelings in the dust.
Forget the madness of those times,
there's no lovelight within this breast
and no way you can make it shine,

NOT many friends
Wish I you;
Love makes amends
For the few.

Slight bonds are best
For the new;
Here is the test
Of the true:

Pay to your friend
Your own due;
Lone to the end,
Through and through;
Let him, commend,
And not you.

Friends of this kind,
Tried and true,
May you, friend, find,—
Just a few.

You, eternal love for child, how did you fall into me,
Like a kind and gentle seed fallen on the desert floor,
That clinged to the other buds, waiting for a long, long while,
Guiding its juices in vain to the currents of the earth?

Of childhood I remember, before any other love,
That for parent, for sister, I felt so like the father
Of the child that was to come, of him who was within me,
A love of endless circle, from myself toward myself.

I would see him just as if he were a little brother,

Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and withering age submit,
With less regret those laurels I resign,
Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
With better grace an ancient chief may yield
The long contended honours of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:

My Muse in meads has spent her many hours
Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers,
To make for others garlands; and to set
On many a head here, many a coronet.
But amongst all encircled here, not one
Gave her a day of coronation;
Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove
A laurel for her, ever young as Love.
You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due,
Render for that, a crown of life to you.

Of Love and Time say what would Fanny know?
That Time is precious, and that Love is sweet?
That both, the choicest blessings lent below,
With gay Sixteen in envied union meet?
Time without Love is tasteless, dull, and cold,
Love out of Time will fond and doting prove;
To bright sixteen are all their treasures told,
Love suits the Time, and Time then favours Love.
No longer then of matron brows inquire
For sprightly Love, or swiftly-wasting Time;
Look but at home, you have what you require,—

I DID not choose thee, dearest. It was Love
That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind
As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove
His offering brings and cares not at what shrine
He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine;
The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand,
And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine,
And spoke the words I might not understand.
   I was unwise in all but the dear chance
Which was my fortune, and the blind desire
Which led my foolish steps to Love's abode,