And laughing when they strove to catch,
Or failing, begg’d me not to snatch;
For I had e’er a lover’s eye,
And flowers were lovely company!
A very bacchanal of heart;
And nature-taught in pleasure’s art,
A young Anacreon in my glee,
Beneath the rose-bush tossing me,
And more,—a very rogue, was I,
A pig from Epicurus’ stye;