I have drunk deep of love: last night she came
And with her kisses set my soul aflame.
Such fragrant nectar even gods above
May scarcely know: I have drunk deep of love.

My heart goes out to France, the Queen in war,
In carnival and love; the gay, the brave.
To that young blue-eyed Breton who would save
A dance for Death or for his Belle Aurore.
Who keeps so purely in his heart the lore
Of love and honor while the tyrant guns
Spume at his wisp of flesh their flaring tons,
White hot from maddened ages gone before.
The world's barometer is in that lad —
That Breton peasant against whom is hurled
The wild, down-leaping chariot of Mars.
When France is laughing all the Earth is glad.

The soldier worn with wars, delights in peace,
The pilgrim in his ease, when toils are past;
The ship to gain the port, when storms do cease;
And I rejoice discharged from Love at last,
Whom while I served, peace, rest, and land I lost,
With wars, with toils, with storms, worn, tired and tost.

Sweet liberty now gives me leave to sing,
What world it was, where Love the rule did bear;
How foolish chance by lots ruled ev'ry thing,
How error was main sail, each wave a tear,
The master Love himself, deep sighs were wind,

If Love had lost his shafts, and Jove down threw
His thunder-bolts, or spent his forked fire,
They only might recovered be anew
From out my heart, cross-wounded with desire.
Or if debate by Mars were lost a space,
It might be found within the self-same place.

If Neptune's waves were all dried up and gone,
My weeping eyes so many tears distill,
That greater seas might grow by them alone:
Or if no flame were yet remaining still
In Vulcan's forge, he might from out my breast
Make choice of such as should befit him best.

Love took his seal and in thy breast
The image of me there impressed,
I in my heart thy picture have
Which that same artist did engrave.
Pluto below, the Sun above,
Shall see the witness of my love,
And never, never did I fear
That thou my likeness forth would tear.
So when we to death's judgment come
Thou must endure the traitor's doom.

Yesterday I sat between
Kate and Flo;
Flo loves me and I love Kate,
I was in a pretty state:
What was I to do?

Florence quick to me did lean,
Kissed me so:
Jealous of my other dear,
She will tell on us, I fear.
What then could I do?

I was feeling rather mean,
Longed to go;
Turned to Kitty like a thief,
Snatched one kiss—'twas all too brief—
That I had to do.

But I'm sure there'll be a scene
'Twixt the two;
Kisses into trouble lead,
Whether given or received.
What am I to do?

How can my love in equity be blamed,
Still to importune, though it ne'er obtain,
Since though her face and voice will me refrain,
Yet by her voice and face I am inflamed?
For when, alas! her face with frowns is framed,
To kill my love, but to revive my pain;
And when her voice commands, but all in vain,
That love both leave to be, and to be named:
Her siren voice doth such enchantment move,
And though she frown, ev'n frowns so lovely make her,
That I of force am forced still to love.
Since then I must, and yet cannot forsake her,

If once a man has bitten been,
Mad dogs, they say, by him are seen
Wherever waters flow;
And so perchance Love's frenzied bite
Has robbed me of my senses quite
And I bewildered go.
The babbling brook, the foaming sea,
The wine cup, each reflects but thee.

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated,
With prayers oft repeated!
Yet still my love is thwarted:
Heart, let her go, for she'll not be converted.
Say, shall she go?
Oh! no, no, no, no, no;
She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.

How often have my sighs declared mine anguish,
Wherein I daily languish!
Yet doth she still procure it:
Heart, let her go, for I cannot endure it.
Say, shall she go?
Oh! no, no, no, no, no;
She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.

Why blame the pranks that love does ever play?
What though my eyes be wet, my temples gray?
These cares are but the signs of passion's fire,
Of sleepless nights and unfulfilled desire,
Only the flame within me freshly burns,
All else to age and feebleness returns.
Yet though my sides are wrinkled in their prime,
My neck all loose and slack before its time,
If thou, dear heart, to love me now will deign
I shall grow young, my hair turn black again.