Had I a man’ s fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprise;
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom’ s swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’ s eyes.
Yet must I dote upon thee — call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla’ s honied roses
When steep’ d in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ‘tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
I’ ll gather some by spells, and incantation.