Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay.
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. TO ANNA.
Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire,
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss, and cling to thee,