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I could love
thee till I die,
Would'st thou love me modestly,
And ne'er press, whilst I live,
For more than
willingly I would give:
Which should sufficient be to
prove
I'd understand the art of love.
I hate
the thing is called enjoyment:
Besides it is a dull
employment,
It cuts off all that's life and fire
From that which may be termed desire;
Just like the
bee whose sting is gone
Converts the owner to a
drone.
I love a youth will give me leave
His
body in my arms to wreathe;
To press him gently, and
to kiss;
To sigh, and look with eyes that wish
For
what, if I could once obtain,
I would neglect with
flat disdain.
I'd give him liberty to toy
And
play with me, and count it joy.
Our freedom should be
full complete,
And nothing wanting but the feat.
Let's practice, then, and we shall prove
These are
the only sweets of love.
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