 | Lyrical Poems |  |
165
SPORT NOT WITH LOVE!
Sport not with love, if thou art wise;
Quick from such perilous pastime turn thee!
The light that rays from beauty's eyes
Shall grow into a flame to burn thee!
If the fair maid may not be thine,
In feeding love thou feedest sorrow;
One short hour's bliss may make thee pine
With a life-long wound to-morrow!
Quick from such perilous pastime turn thee!
The light that rays from beauty's eyes
Shall grow into a flame to burn thee!
If the fair maid may not be thine,
In feeding love thou feedest sorrow;
One short hour's bliss may make thee pine
With a life-long wound to-morrow!
'Tis hard, I know, 'tis harsh; but take
The friendly warning that I bring thee:
This singing bird will turn a snake,
And in thy bosom sorely sting thee!
When the ripe peaches on the wall
Are hung too high for thy endeavour,
Even now thy lawless gaze recall,
Or pine with fruitless greed for ever!
The friendly warning that I bring thee:
This singing bird will turn a snake,
And in thy bosom sorely sting thee!
166
Are hung too high for thy endeavour,
Even now thy lawless gaze recall,
Or pine with fruitless greed for ever!
Sport not with love, if thou art wise;
Sport not with love!—a spark is pretty;
But give it breath, and lo! it flies
Rampant abroad, and flames a city!
If the fair maid may not be thine,
From love's luxurious pasture turn thee,
Or these fair eyes that beam benign
Shall grow a scorching flame to burn thee!
Sport not with love!—a spark is pretty;
But give it breath, and lo! it flies
Rampant abroad, and flames a city!
If the fair maid may not be thine,
From love's luxurious pasture turn thee,
Or these fair eyes that beam benign
Shall grow a scorching flame to burn thee!
| Lyrical Poems | |