TO CORINNA.
The jocund spring, in season ripe,
Her reign of gladness hath commenced,
Each shepherd mends his broken pipe,
Each nymph knows well
The subtle spell
By which she'll soon be influenz'ed.
Then tarry not, belovèd maid,
Nor make thy worshipper endure
Such woes as haunt him who's afraid,
And yet desires
To think Love's fires
Alone have raised his temperature!
What though the crocus still delays?
No fragrance hath it sweet or rare;
The snowdrop pale let others praise;
We need not yet
The violet
When eucalyptus fills the air!
Away with winter's peevish woes!
We'll wander though the meadows green
Or where the babbling river flows,
And on the brink
We'll sit and drink
Ambrosial tincture of quinine.
