 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
149
THE LOVE-PHILTRE.
“But she will love you, kiss you perhaps, who knows?Come take it, don't be foolish,” so persuaded
A simple youth a witch with features faded,
And hump-back orthodox, and rusty clothes,
Pressing upon him hard a magic dose
By which his love-suit might be swiftly aided;
But he recoiled, and, vehement, upbraided
Her foul intention, saying, “let my rose
Bloom on and let me wither if so be,
But let her pierce me with her own sweet eyes
Deluded by no draught prepared of thee
Even if heaven to me the truth denies;
Thy gift I accept not in anywise,
Avaunt enchantress, vanish quickly, flee!”
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