 | The poetical works of the late Thomas Little [i.e. Thomas Moore] |  |
37
SONG.
[Away with this pouting and sadness!]
Away with this pouting and sadness!
Sweet girl! will you never give o'er?
I love you, by Heaven! to madness,
And what can I swear to you more?
Believe not the old woman's fable,
That oaths are as short as a kiss;
I'll love you as long as I'm able,
And swear for no longer than this.
Sweet girl! will you never give o'er?
I love you, by Heaven! to madness,
And what can I swear to you more?
Believe not the old woman's fable,
That oaths are as short as a kiss;
I'll love you as long as I'm able,
And swear for no longer than this.
Then waste not the time with professions;
For not to be blest when we can,
Is one of the darkest transgressions
That happen 'twixt woman and man.—
Pretty moralist! why thus beginning
My innocent warmth to reprove?
Heav'n knows that I never lov'd sinning—
Except little sinnings in love!
For not to be blest when we can,
Is one of the darkest transgressions
That happen 'twixt woman and man.—
Pretty moralist! why thus beginning
My innocent warmth to reprove?
Heav'n knows that I never lov'd sinning—
Except little sinnings in love!
39
If swearing, however, will do it,
Come, bring me the calendar, pray—
I vow, by that lip, I'll go through it,
And not miss a saint on my way.
The angels shall help me to wheedle;
I'll swear upon every one
That e'er danc'd on the point of a needle,
Or rode on a beam of the sun!
Come, bring me the calendar, pray—
I vow, by that lip, I'll go through it,
And not miss a saint on my way.
The angels shall help me to wheedle;
I'll swear upon every one
That e'er danc'd on the point of a needle,
Or rode on a beam of the sun!
Oh! why should Platonic control, love,
Enchain an emotion so free?
Your soul, though a very sweet soul, love,
Will ne'er be sufficient for me.
If you think, by this coldness and scorning,
To seem more angelic and bright,
Be an angel, my love, in the morning,
But, oh! be a woman to-night!
Enchain an emotion so free?
Your soul, though a very sweet soul, love,
Will ne'er be sufficient for me.
If you think, by this coldness and scorning,
To seem more angelic and bright,
Be an angel, my love, in the morning,
But, oh! be a woman to-night!
| The poetical works of the late Thomas Little [i.e. Thomas Moore] | |