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33
RHAPSODY.
“This is very Midsummer madness!”
SHAKSPEARE.
SHAKSPEARE.
I love my Love to such excess,
And prize her with such jealous care,
That I could quarrel with the breeze,
Which frolics with her golden hair.
And prize her with such jealous care,
That I could quarrel with the breeze,
Which frolics with her golden hair.
So great the madness of my heart,
With such fierce passion do I glow,
That oft I wish to rend the robe
That dares to clasp her breast of snow.
With such fierce passion do I glow,
That oft I wish to rend the robe
That dares to clasp her breast of snow.
And when in noontide high she roves
And meets the sun's enamoured blaze,
I call for night to shroud the groves,
That he may not so warmly gaze.
And meets the sun's enamoured blaze,
I call for night to shroud the groves,
That he may not so warmly gaze.
34
So do I doat upon the fair,
Such is my passion's ecstasy,
That I could quarrel with the air,
To which she breathes her balmy sigh.
Such is my passion's ecstasy,
That I could quarrel with the air,
To which she breathes her balmy sigh.
'Tis folly's dream! yet I prefer
Such dreams to dull reality;
I would be air, robe, all, to her!
She should be every thing to me!
Such dreams to dull reality;
I would be air, robe, all, to her!
She should be every thing to me!
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