Oh pardon me, if e'er I say too much; my mind Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth, As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond Or brooding melancholy cloys my soul With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time

No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, 15

A smile is curving o'er her creamy cheek, Her bosom swells with all a lover's joy, When love receives a message that the coy Young love-god made a strong and true heart speak From far-off lands; and like a mountain-peak That loses in one avalanche its cloy Of ice and snow, so doth her breast employ

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad; But sober on a fund of joy The woods at heart are glad.

Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.